


Inculta

by Tempestad



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Animal Spirit, Attempt At Dark Humor, Author Is Sleep Deprived, But Porn Nonetheless, Cannibalism, Crack Treated Seriously, Dark Porn To Be Precise, Drug Use, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Femdom, Fuck Politics, Grey-Zone Dubious Consent, Het and Slash, I Know This Is Shit Okay, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Lore Redefinition, M/M, Me Twisting Up Lore, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Poledance, Porn With Plot, Sad Vulpes Is Sad, Smut, Stalking, The Author Regrets Everything, Threesome - F/M/M, Torture, Unapologetic Romanticism, Vampire Sex, Vampirism, Vulpes Inculta Being an Asshole, War Never Changes, Whipping, angsty smut, master/disciple, unrequited feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:35:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 48,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23079460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tempestad/pseuds/Tempestad
Summary: A collection of One-Shots and discarded - some dark, some not so - ideas featuring the soft-spoken Vulpes Inculta and his misadventures and dalliances all over the Mojave.Inspired by Trystero's amazing One-Shot collection "Lanius", this work is mostly smut. Smut with an actual plot/s. But smut nonetheless.Dark smut. Not always, but I tend to write unnecessarily complicated plots, so...[I accept suggestions and even prompts from virtually anybody who would kindly ask. Inspiration is hard to come by, so help would be appreciated.]
Relationships: Female Courier/Legion Men, Female Courier/Vulpes Inculta, Vulpes Inculta/Male Courier/Human Ghost of She, Vulpes Inculta/Vulpes Inculta
Comments: 14
Kudos: 45





	1. A State of Independence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PLOT: well... This is me attempting to write porn but with an actual plot. The idea behind this particular One-Shot is basically Independent New Vegas with Legion boys working at the Casinos as the Courier has offered to protect them... For a price.  
> A price that Vulpes Inculta, humiliated leader of the Frumentarii, intends to re-negotiate. What he doesn't know is that the Courier is a better negotiator than him. Much, much better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: dark themes, torture, men's commodification. If you choose to disregard the tags and warnings, read at your own risk! :D
> 
> PD: the smut is nearly the end. Sorry :(
> 
> PD 2: I've edited a couple small details since I decided to publish this monstrosity so the narrative makes a bit sense. The Aristotle quotation is what I intended to elaborate on, and it doesn't refer to Vulpes at all. He knows very well what he's doing even if he "beneficts" at the end.  
> Oh, and now the smut is more smutty ;)

* * *

_“The self-indulgent man craves for all pleasant things... and is led by his appetite to choose these at the cost of everything else.”_

**― Aristotle, The Nicomachean Ethics**

* * *

With each pass over his pale, gaunt cheeks with the razor as the toilet sink collected the remnants of shaving foam and translucent, thin hairs of an almost non-existent beard; the thirty-something-year-old man at the other side of the mirror stared at him with a severe, questioning look in his eyes.

His dead, very blue eyes.

Once he finished, he switched to an electric hair clipper and proceeded very meticulously to crop his already growing curly hairstyle.

She had entertained the idea of letting his hair grow, see how he looked without his cropped style, but she had discarded the idea this morning. It was clear that she preferred the military style, for she had commented that his brown curls made him look too soft, too pretty for her tastes.

It had to show, after all. Great Khans’ women liked their men strong and hard-looking.

And their Initiation Rite provided them with such a batch of fine male specimens as much at it happened the other way around, for she was as strong and unyielding as any of her Brothers.

Karl had been a fool to keep a journal full of his insulting, short-sighted opinions on the dangerous tribe. A piece of evidence so incriminating as that one had widely demonstrated that Karl’s upbringing in the Legion-occupied territories and not _within_ the _very_ Legion from childhood had been his undoing, for no full legionary trained under Frumentarii ranks would have made such a _sloppy_ mistake.

For their leader had learned many years ago that a man is the master of his thoughts… but he’s a slave of his own words, being these spoken or written makes no difference at all.

She had brought the diary to their leader; Karl had been executed in retaliation. And, with him, any possibility of the Legion rebuilding their allegiance with the Great Khans had died.

And she hadn’t stopped there.

For, despite her Great Khan roots, she had brought herself to form a symbiotic pact with the NCR: their collaboration on the Second Battle for the Hoover Dam _AND_ a formal public apology for their misdeeds back on Bitter Springs in exchange of House’s head on a platter, protection for their President when she had frustrated the Legion’s assassination attempt barely a week before the battle… and a juicy fifteen percentage of the monthly Strip earnings to back the Republic’s empty arks when it came to the devaluation of their fiat currency since the NCR-Brotherhood War back in the sixties.

In exchange, she would rule New Vegas in House’s “absence”.

She would regain that puny percentage with an _excelled difference_ by means of the massive waves from both NCR soldiers and citizens seeking to bite the forbidden, rotten fruit of The Strip by pouring their caps both to gambling and sex. She had calculated everything.

And, a year after, it showed just _how good_ she was at _calculations_. That was the one thing he respected from her the most.

Not to speak about the sweet pacts she had made with both the Kings and the Boomers to back her assault on Lanius’ encampment; her allegiance with the Powder Gangers on Vault 19 to strengthen her tribe with more capable men and explosives; the inner cleansing on the Three Families on The Strip; the technology and Power Armor training she had obtained from the Brotherhood of Steel in exchange of her help and protection; the medical supplies and help she had been graciously lent by the Followers of the Apocalypse after countless generous contributions; the wiping of both Fiends and Vipers’ remnants from her territory so they wouldn’t pose a threat in the future, and the multiple cybernetic enhancements she had paid for to a doctor on the New Vegas Medical Clinic.

Not bad for a filthy tribal Degenerate who had gotten two bullets on the head.

Once he felt satisfied with the image the mirror returned, he proceeded to clean after himself and let the water run on the shower until it was at the temperature he favored most.

Then, he proceeded to strip.

Once inside the shower and under the steamy gush of clean, radless water, he made good use of all the perfumed salts, hair conditioners, and soaps available; feeling how the calluses of his palms and fingertips were, slowly but surely, disappearing as the time would pass.

Nothing would erase the many silvery scars that his pale body sported after a lifetime of battling, marching since he was eight. Not that she complained about them or his stiff, heavily eroded back. She said his scars gave him history, for no man was complete without history, and a wild allure.

She would even contribute to scar him further when she would mark him with her nails and teeth. Not that he minded as long as she kept her kinky business far away from his crotch.

Nonetheless, she would also caress his skin with wet, burning trails of kisses and a heated tongue that would lick the blood she would draw until there wouldn’t be a single droplet tinting his now smoothened, but still hard flesh. She said she liked him fit although not overworked. She liked him manly but also a bit dolled up as well, a clear symptom of her New Vegas rule, for Degenerates like her still appreciated the artificial beauty cosmetics would bring into one’s anatomy with enough dedication and care.

She said that he should be thankful, for a life inside Legion’s ranks would have wasted and prematurely aged his natural beauty.

About that, he wouldn’t deny the facts: the black circles around his eyes, his permanent tiredness and the underweight he had sported from way too many years of hard work and very little time for things as basic as eat and sleep, had disappeared completely.

It has been a year since the battle had ended with both winners and losers, and a great many things had changed since then.

Emerging fresh and clean from the shower, he took a clean towel he had prepared over a stool and, once he dried himself to an optimal degree, he proceeded to apply lotions and creams all over his skin.

Sometimes, he liked to entertain the notion that he was a gladiator and he was merely taking care of the body that would later sustain his life on the arena of the Roman Circus.

The funniest part of that fantasy was that it wasn’t that far-fetched from the actual truth.

His instincts had been right from the very start and, with her treacherous move under Caesar’s very nose, she had activated an indestructible army of the most perfect form of combatants. The kind that felt no pain, felt no fear, didn’t tire, didn’t sleep, didn’t need to replenish and, most importantly: the kind that did harbor no delusions, that didn’t seek revenge or harbor any other violent feelings but simply and plainly _obeyed orders_.

Not even the legionary with the greatest zeal could compare to a programmed, soulless machine.

Caesar had been painfully wrong to ban technology.

The _Imperator_ had been old, sick and, to his much shame, _weak_.

The Son of Mars had perished at the cold hands of his own weakness much earlier than when the battle had started and a Butcher had taken his place.

An _animal_ of a Butcher who had laughed at the sight of one lone woman standing before him in silent challenge… but, surrounded by chains and spears like a defeated bull before the _matador_ , had bowed knee before that very woman who had made use of her technological enhancements to tame the beast.

Once his skin had absorbed all the extra hydration, he went outside the bathroom, towel still hanging from his waist, and entered the dressing room. The vanity dressing table with a mirror flashing the only available source of light in the entire space from the various light bulbs distributed at both sides of the reflecting surface.

He took a clean set of underwear, socks, a pristine white shirt and the old trusting, ugly as Hell, brown Dapper Suit, and proceeded to dress himself while taking great care of not create any unaesthetically creases as he fit the shirt carefully under his trousers.

He buttoned up his cuffs, put on a matching brown waistcoat, tied his bolo tie around his neck and went to the dressing table, leaving the ugly, itchy jacket for the last.

Looking again to the man reflecting on the mirror, an indifferent, almost bored expression set upon his sharp features, blue eyes cold and dead as their pupils took on the light change, he proceeded to search for any imperfections or out-of-place facial hairs he would take care either with primer or tweezers.

He had never considered himself a vain man until her well-placed suggestions had made him start to consider that he was well into his thirties and, if he didn’t take care of his appearance, he would quickly lose the terse, inhumanly poised allure that had managed to attract her in the first place.

Better to live under her roof and between her sheets ten more years than being left at the devices of other NCR women – and men – who sought to fulfill the secretly twisted desire to have their former most bitter enemy at their mercy for their own perverse deviations.

Because, if Lanius had been a foe to be reckoned and a threat to fear with every reason in the world, he himself had been present all over the Mojave for _years_ before the Legate had decided to graze the desert with his brutish act of apparition.

Each calamity, each intercepted radio signal, each new wave of terror, each town freshly erased from the map always on his account.

Little did he had suspected when the city of whores, Nipton, had fallen under his boot that a lone, muscled female silhouette would draw against the rising smoke and reddened sky of that afternoon.

He had been wearing his usual Legion Prime Armor along with the Vexillarius headdress and tinted biker goggles that had make him so famous around NCR encampments, their propaganda selling his image as the ultimate insult to the Republic.

Definitely, nothing that would have stirred any sort of _physical reaction_ to a female rather than fear or even disgust.

But this woman hadn’t been any _ordinary_ woman.

The moment he had opened his mouth and had started talking, her demeanor had changed from steely to frightening _playful_ , of _all things_ , as her eyelashes would flutter more than necessary in the face of the smoke and her tongue would often find her teeth and lips, moistening and engorging the latter while a predatory smile had graced her features.

She had resembled a coyote licking its chops at the sight of freshly cut meat.

He had explained to her that the happenstance of her presence at that very moment had been opportune, for he wanted her to deliver the NCR a message. A warning of what should befall to the entire West in the days ahead as the Legion would teach purity and loyalty to the Profligate cultures. A lesson, a sermon, if she will.

He had dismissed her “Sure, handsome. Whatever your little black heart’s content.” as a way to appeal for his mercy putting on the seductress act. Nothing that he hadn’t seen before.

So, satisfied that she would comply without resistance, he had bid her _vale_ and had directed his and his men’s steps to Cottonwood Cove, still feeling her darkened, burning eyes pass through him.

She had told him once that his pale muscled legs coupled with his voice alone had given her the most raging _lady boner_ ever.

While he had been unfamiliar with the term until he had dared to ask, many of his unvoiced questions during the last year had, somehow, been answered.

While that wouldn’t give him any peace of mind, it had informed him of the waters he was wading. He could work with that.

Because the second time they had met, his not understanding of the situation had made him lose what – _maybe_ , not so quick now at reaching conclusions now that he knew her better – would have become an upper hand over her.

She had left The Tops wearing a smug smile, a worried Followers of the Apocalypse doctor and an amused redhead cowgirl following suit, when he had made his stellar apparition.

Taken momentarily aback as she had studied him with intent, trying to reorganize her memories from Nipton to his new encounter at open face, her predatory smile had come back to her features, her eyes this time, instead of fluttering, strangely _appreciative_ ; still darkening with each word he would speak.

He had dismissed her fingertips grazing his knuckles as he had passed the Mark of Caesar onto her and the way her body language had made a subtle shift from bold to _sinuous_.

He had dismissed, again, her strange quip “Of course, sweet-cheekbones, of course. I will drop by to give your Caesar my… respects.” – clicking her tongue, his constant denial of what an opportunity he had before him had made him literally blind when she had leaned closer, her shorter stature making her hot breath land on his Adam apple – “I will see you there, I hope?”

He hadn’t been made Head of the Frumentarii by not being perceptive of many women’s interest in his person… but this one in particular, while being polite always, didn’t sugar-coat the fact that she was brazenly flirting with him. She sounded perhaps too sincere to match his previous experiences with the ill-famed _femme fatales_ , who tended to play on men’s sexual pride to get what they wanted.

So, his first thought had been that she was making fun of a legionary she knew wouldn’t act on his impulses due to the lack of opportunity in an environment as controlled as The Strip… and his own private lack of _interest_ in any human or non-human body that would offer sexual intercourse.

Since he had entered puberty, he had never demonstrated the apparently uncontrolled lust many young men submitted themselves to when they had an available woman – or a man, in some cases, although not publicly – at their reach, willing or not.

He had seen the same pattern both within and outside the Legion and all had been incredibly _alien_ to him, unsure of the sexual jokes he should laugh at, unsure of the compliments he should give to a particular _virile_ legionary that would boast how many slaves he had engaged, unsure of how he should react to certain commentaries regarding women.

His learning on how seduction worked had been purely artificial, more out of observing and linking threads than coming naturally for him.

He had _studied_ how interactions between men and women worked, but everything had been mechanical, done with the sole purpose of gathering intelligence, half of the time declining further advances as he hadn’t been in the mood to mentally force himself into the only scenery he found, to his much chagrin, to be the only thing that would _truly_ set him off.

When he felt satisfied and rose from the chair to put on the jacket, three short knocks on the door awakened him from his reverie.

“Come in, please.” – he answered, perennially pleasant and measured.

He had truly earned his name. Nobody would have survived as long as he had without knowing how to behave given _any_ situation. Clever as a _fox_.

The dirty blonde wild strands of one of his former, most trusted men, appeared in sight after the door opened.

* * *

Gabban’s night had been unbelievable busy and tiresome, to say the least. And it was only 09:20 PM.

It was always the same every weekend at The Gomorrah, especially during the Happy Hour.

He had been but happy to be the one going to fetch the star of the evening if that would allow him a moment of respite to collect his thoughts.

Serving drinks behind the bar counter to the amalgam of NCR women crowding in there tonight wouldn’t have been so bad if said women would simply ask for drinks instead of accosting him to speak some Latin over there and there, attempting to grab a handful under his _pteruges_ armor - formerly his field uniform, now little more than a _costume_ to add on the feel the many females sought just to have fun at their expenses - and to call them _‘Profligate whores’_.

After a full year doing the same, the phrase had lost its charm.

The same went for their former field word code, as now saying _ave_ , _salve_ , and _vale_ held no further significance.

But he wasn’t complaining. After all, they were still alive and each one of them had a job that paid a roof over their heads, put bread over their tables and, sometimes, allowed them to even save some caps to buy petty stuff they enjoyed like tobacco, sweets or even fancy things like a new shirt or a brand new pair of sunglasses.

And they had their medical costs fully covered.

Hell, they even had all the female company they had craved so badly while under Caesar’s rule and had to conform themselves with unwilling slaves or to save some coin, such as he had been doing, to buy a wife from the slavemasters. And they hadn’t been any close to cheap.

If it hadn’t been for Vulpes, many of them would have died or worse: chased down by NCR Rangers and snipers just for sport after the war, suffering hardships worse than death at their hands inside their ‘unofficial’ torture chambers.

When Gabban said that he wouldn’t look at a gift horse on the mouth, he really meant it. He knew that things could be better… but they also could be worse, _far worse_. And he was dead sure about the second.

Knocking thrice, he received permission to enter to find Vulpes inside his dressing room. He was the only one that had his own dressing room, courtesy of the Courier.

Upon looking at him, Gabban felt slightly envious of his former boss: despite not being overly young for Legion standards, the son of a bitch kept himself fairly well, his mystery and allure intact as if he had been ten years younger than he truly was.

It also showed that the Courier pampered him beyond measure if his well-rested countenance and the almost velvety quality that all his pale skin had acquired since the past year were any indication. Not to speak of the pristine-condition, tailored clothes he wore.

Despite everything, Vulpes was a _very_ lucky man.

“You come out in ten minutes.” – he informed the impassive, pale-eyed man – “Are you ready?”

Vulpes took his brown fedora and put it over his head, slightly inclined over his eyes to give more in the mystery. Gabban had to admit, the man was truly a showman.

“Always.” – was his response.

* * *

Each time Vulpes would travel that short course through hidden hallways and platforms behind the stage, he would cringe internally and think that he was too old for this shit.

He wouldn’t voice his concerns, of course. And even less in such uncouth vocabulary.

After all, he still was way educated than the disgusting drunk rabble crowding around the stage.

He still had some pride to hold onto.

Although that very pride seemed to falter every single time he would show his face to the multitude, lights getting warmer and lower as provocative music started to play.

His apparition on stage would be received typically with countless whistling, applauses and hysterical hollering coming mostly from the lips of many, very drunken women in uniforms… although some of the men would find their ways into the room reserved for his show to add on the whistling and general ruckus.

They were strictly forbidden from accosting, mistreating or even jeering at him or to any other ex-Legion co-workers. If they dared to, regardless of their state of inebriation, the Courier’s brutish Casino muscle had orders to take them off the building and ban their entrance to any business, with the exception to Vault 21 Gift Shop and Hotel, from a whole month. If they came out with more than three warnings, they were banned from the entire Strip indefinitely.

That had been a small consolation knowing that, being workers and all, rabid, vengeful NCR soldiers couldn’t touch them.

However, how NCR troops, most prominently female, always came religiously to have more of them, ex-Legion boys, was still baffling to Vulpes.

However, the male flavor gave the Courier more profits by the end of the month than she had initially suspected when she had opened The Sodom, now a neighbor casino to The Gomorrah, where the shows and services were mostly dedicated to the gay and lesbian population. Many of Vulpes’ former comrades had ended there.

And by their own choice.

When she had explained to them that, in exchange of her protection and as a means of undergoing penance for their war crimes, they ought to contribute to The Strip’s economy by means of either bartending and cleaning, be part of a show or to work as sexual employees, many ex-legionaries had, figurately of course, gotten ‘off the closet’ and had gladly accepted being paid for bedding men, a forbidden fruit for many and a constant source of a lot of sexual frustration since they could remember.

The Sodom had been a gush of fresh air for all closeted people from both factions who had sought sating their ‘non-conventional’ needs and desires without being subjected to prejudice and scrutiny. Every willing gay or lesbian worker from The Gomorrah had been added to The Sodom’s staff and many others had joined as the months had passed and word of a full gay establishment had run like ignited gunpowder.

Separating them, hetero and non-hetero, had been a smart move that had earned the Courier a constant source of caps-pouring just for the sake of keeping the privacy of her clients.

Besides, she had banned chems from her employees. Instead, she had given the order to the staff on both casinos to pour some fireant’s nectar all over the food and drinks and an expensive variety of Ant Queen Pheromones that one could use as a potent aphrodisiac should the aforementioned _add-ons_ may prove… insufficient.

Everything to keep the clientele happy and horny enough to rut there for days. It wasn’t entirely ‘moral-abiding’, but laws’ regulations said nothing about aphrodisiacs, so the legal hole was there to appropriate. Not the Courier’s fault that laws were not perfect.

She had a wealthy empire under her thumb and she knew how to administrate it.

When Vulpes reached the metallic pole over the stage and rested his hand against the smooth, cold surface, many women started to howl like a hungry pack of wolves while raising clearly pulled off NCR posters of him, some sporting lipstick marks, some others with the top cut to only leave the photo with the final statement _“You are his BITCH!”_ with the _“his”_ part sometimes changed for simply an _“a”_.

Baffling, Vulpes still thought.

When the music started to rise in volume, the cheering raised in kind as well as Vulpes positioned in front of the multitude, legs separated, arms at both sides of his body, head low.

_Profligates…_

Taking dramatically his hat off, he threw it to the raving multitude, earning the immediate chain reaction of fighting among the drunken women to get it.

It looked like an open wound filled with swarming worms.

Pile body upon body, indeed.

His eyes searched way up the multitude to find her, one floor above the ruckus. She was observing him from her V.I.P. zone, surrounded by her companions, her muscled, barely covered body stretching languidly over a red sofa like some Roman Empress, a Martini on her left hand.

Boring his eyes onto hers, he took his jacket slowly, earning more hysterical screeching and, without taking his eyes off hers, he dispassionately threw it to the public, earning just the exact same reaction from a minute ago.

This was his arena; this was his Roman Circus.

She leaned over her private cloud, revealing how low the cut of her almost translucent silver dress reached, the embroidery of her slight lingerie insinuating amidst silken folds.

She nodded.

So, the show started.

* * *

From her position by the Courier’s right side, Rose of Sharon Cassidy, former owner of _Cassidy Caravans_ , belched soundly, whiskey bottle in hand, before joining the collective hollering.

“That’s it, Fox-Face!” – she slurred, already half-drunk despite the present early evening hour – “Show ‘em how’s done! Wohooo!”

Truth was that the poker-faced fucker was getting her horny by the minute as he precariously balanced his weight in a series of athletic acrobatics using the metallic pole to reach heights very few would have attempted to try.

Best part of it was that he wasn’t doing it in a sexy way. He was just showing off how damn elastic and agile he was while he kept on disposing of articles of clothing that were getting sticky and sweaty under his constant physical strain.

Cass would have done anything to climb up that stage and lick the sweat out of his not-fair-at-all chiseled body.

The bolo tie, the waistcoat, the white shirt and the undershirt had already disappeared and the man was contorting deliciously slow over the stage with his magnificent abs for all to see.

Given the opportunity, Cass was sure that many women down there, like her, wouldn’t hesitate to risk slicing their wrists just to prove those very abs and cheekbones were carved in fucking marble instead of flesh.

However, that honor was for the Courier alone and nobody else.

On more than an occasion, Cass had attempted to bargain with her so she would share a piece of her deliciously haughty, coldly indifferent, but hot as Hell Legion cake… to no avail.

No amount of pleading, promises or money (and the Courier had been offered ridiculously high amounts of caps just for an hour alone with Foxy Man down there) would make her sway from her decision: the Fox was hers, and hers alone to enjoy.

A shame Cass wouldn’t get the poker-faced fucker sticking his long, elegant nose between her legs, but hey, she could have any other Legion Boy totally free of charge, so she wasn’t complaining.

Not really. And despite her heated fantasies, she was still loyal on principle to the only person who had helped her when the Van Graffs and the _Crimson Caravans’_ monster had reared its ugly head.

Her already wet pussy would be taken care of by any other enthusiastic Skirt Boy. And she just knew the one who would give her such _amazing_ lip service.

Arcade, on the other hand, watched the show from the opposite flank of the Courier with a slight frown but undiluted longing desire clouding his eyes behind his glasses.

The poor Doc was too damn shy and too a good person to state how wrongly and badly he desired the favors from a not just an ex-slaver, but also a genocidal maniac that had erased whole populations from the map and lied, tortured and sold people for information.

Cassidy knew all of that and yet she still wanted him between her legs. She wanted the sick piece of shit eating her up while she would whip him with a riding crop in his pale ass. He would even welcome the experience, for Cass suspected that the twisted motherfucker hadn’t regular sexual inclinations. Bet he liked being restrained and tested to his limits, like the lab rat he was.

She wasn’t sick, she simply was honest with herself; something that was far beyond the reach of Arcade’s moral limits.

She pitied him for it. The Wasteland had a tendency to chew, swallow and shit good people like him more often than with monsters like the blue-eyed god below.

“Are you sure…” – oh my, not _that tone_ again – “… that he will tolerate much longer this game of yours without attempting at retaliation?” – Arcade asked, unsure of where to put his eyes on, either on his interlocutor, either on the contorting man over the stage – “Since you have taken the collar off him…”

The Courier turned her head to give him a bored look.

“First, you complained that collared men were a direct violation against human rights.” – she answered lazily, clearly having had this very conversation dozens of times – “Then, once I had officially reinstated their rights as workers and not slaves, you say that they could be dangerous without a leash tying them up.”

“Not the others.” – Arcade protested, his sight returning to the tall pale man – “Just _him_. You know _who_ he is, Six. You know what he is _capable_ of.”

“He knows his place better than me.” – the Courier replied – “He will behave as long as he stays complacent and sated enough.” – reclining herself in a more comfortable position on the sofa, she added - “That man over there had a stomach so empty and with such a deep hole within it that he was starting to devour himself from inside out, although he was ignorant of that fact at the time. He was so crazed at the growing hunger inside him that he would literally have done anything to fill that void. I offered him the closest thing he could have to the real stuff he wanted to chew on and he accepted. He feels complacent enough now. End of story.”

“What did he seek and what did you offer to him, exactly?” – Arcade asked, half scared that she would actually tell him the truth.

But the Courier’s enigmatic smile had settled the conversation and the music down there had slowly dissolved. A loud chorus of howls and screeching elevated to the sky as Inculta, with his shoes and pants still on, had gotten down the metallic pole while making a reverence.

However, the show didn’t end there as he took a few steps to the platform’s edge and leaned slightly over the microphone stand.

“Sleep tight, Profligate West, for today you will not be subjected to the lessons I daresay you need undergoing so the filth that impregnates each one of you would be completely cleansed.” – he cooed with a soft, serpentine voice, earning whistles from the hollering drunkards.

“BE MY BITCH, INCULTA!” – one of the women managed to shout high enough to make herself discernible amidst the general clamor.

Vulpes over the stage gave her a cold, provocative smile. A gesture so rare that made the Courier and her two companions lean over the balcony, watching closely the scene unfolding before them. The Fox had never addressed his public before.

“Only…” – he answered with oily, slippery voice – “… if you let me _steal_ your equipment, tools… and _personal propriety_.” - he finished, showing a row of sharp canines in the equivalent of a smile although it resembled more of a sneer.

However, his response was met with delighted feminine squeals and pouty moans as he disappeared from stage, back into the darkness he belonged to.

* * *

Once he got back to the welcoming embrace of the shadows, Vulpes allowed himself a moment of self-deprecating thoughts when he saw how childish and petty his veiled threats sounded from a stage sweating, half-naked and surrounded with drunken women so drowned in alcohol and their sick delusions that his message had ended interpreted as yet another improvisation of his act, probably asking for more from now on forward. The Courier wasn’t and wouldn’t be the only woman that found his voice intriguing.

With the music diluting in the distant background, he was able to hear steps coming from his left.

“Here.” – it was Alerio, offering him a fresh towel so he could dry off the sweat covering every inch of his body.

“Thank you.” – he replied, accepting the help without looking into it too much. On another time, he would have questioned this sudden kindness coming from the very man who had wanted his position as Caesar’s Greatest Frumentarius. Now, all that rivalry had been left behind for good.

Now they were working men facing their new fates and still in denial of their respective mental crisis.

They counted on each other to emotionally survive this new part of their lives.

“Too a busy night today, I’m afraid.” – said Alerio after a short while – “Many people have come here during New Year’s holidays, so the NCR military presence has increased to keep their citizens under control as they know how senseless is to attempt reason with a securitron while not being able to sputter three words in a row because either of the alcohol or the drugs ingested. Thus, the _maremágnum_ you’ve seen out there.”

“I see.” – was Vulpes noncommittal answer while drying himself.

“The Courier has asked that you get reunited with her together on the big office up the Zoara Club.” – the other man added – “If I were you, I wouldn’t make her wait… _too much_.” – he finished with a tight-lipped smile, disappearing again to return to his post behind the bar counter at the upper lounge. Alerio, besides Gabban, had been one of the few privileged that, having been too old for shows or prostitution, had been left in charge of the kitchens, cleaning, and bar counters on the two levels.

Others earned their weekly salary with a job many would find denigrating but that they, having lived through women-shortage, happily accepted. It was still discouraging and a bit pride-shriveling to be paid for a job they would have done for free, but caps were caps.

Or so many choose to believe as Vulpes, on his way to the Zoara Club, saw Cato Hostilius arm in arm with the perverted redhead companion of the Courier, who was shamelessly grabbing one of Cato’s buttocks as she directed Vulpes a brief but intense leer. They disappeared from sight to the emergency stairs, the quickest way to get to the bedrooms’ lower area.

Towel over his shoulders to preserve some shred of modesty as the rest of his absent clothing had been disputed amongst the raucous NCR females, Vulpes headed to what had been once Nero’s office, the former leader to the Omertas back when they had attempted to strike a deal with Caesar about letting them keep their business as the _Imperator_ would have marched over The Strip in exchange of their aid to achieve such a feat.

They had never known how wrong they had been about the Legion, but the Courier had tackled the roots of the problem by, quite literally, vaporizing Nero, his Second-In-Command, Big Sal… and even the weak, perverted Cachino who had kept his head as well as his dick too far inside the prostitutes’ rears that he hadn’t seen coming the double-cross the Courier had prepared for him.

And now, both The Sodom and The Gomorrah were being administrated by her while she kept trusting people among her staff that would solve minimal problems inside both Casinos.

Ever the businesswoman.

Vulpes found her inside her office and, while the door hadn’t been closed, he had overheard a heated discussion between her and the Followers doctor about him.

Apparently, the good doctor thought that there was still reason to fear the name of Vulpes Inculta.

That… fed the Fox’s deflated pride to the point he entered the office with renewed strength, his gait wide and strong, earning an immediate startled look from the other man.

Good.

The blonde doctor then proceeded to excuse himself and left the room as soon as Vulpes had gotten far enough from the exit. Other than that, the Courier had remained calm and even at ease the moment her eyes had landed on his figure, her eyes darkening at the mere sight of his naked torso.

“Had fun?” – she asked with a chiding undertone in her voice – “Felt better once you threatened a multitude of drunken, horny women who came here just for the chance of catching your weekly show, hmmm?”

That _stung_. And, knowing it came from her, even more.

“Don’t attempt to sell their interest beyond making me a public example of _mockery_.” – he hissed – “The stories about me had fed their desire to see me _punished_. And this is a _fine example_ of punishment, if you ask me.”

“Ah, you and your _lessons_.” – she said, shaking her head from side to side – “You would be surprised how the human mind works when it comes to _desire_. But you strive so hard at being as less human as possible that you auto-sabotage your own possibilities even before they had presented themselves in full view.” – nearing him, her touch felt as cold as he felt inside, craving for a warmness that would never come. Not when he was Legion, not now under the Courier’s boot – “A year later, and you haven’t changed one bit. What are we going to do with you?”

“You will find that I am _not_ so easily _broken_ like the rest of my comrades, Courier.” – he spat, his voice soft but coated with an underlined warning – “You can take out pride and self-respect by making me look and behave like a whore, but you will never undermine _resilience_ and _determination_. I will survive this and, in time, I will thrive and be the master of my own destiny again.”

“You were never the master of your own destiny, Vulpes.” – she replied and, in her voice, sadness crept like fog – “And let’s thank Caesar for that. You were raised into beliefs you despised but swallowed like the necessary bitter pill it was.”- raising her eyes, searching on his cold, dead ones, she continued – “You transformed the need of seeing everything that limited or constrained you destroyed into the needs you still haven’t purged off your system. I am not the enemy here, Vulpes. I, unlike Caesar, gave you a choice to either run away… or remain by my side and pay the price for it. You have much to answer for and yet, you are the most privileged of the men that decided to follow your example and submit to me.”

“And _who_ do you think _you_ are, Courier?” – he countered – “A _savior_ to the pitiful wastes of the humankind? Some sort of _redeemer_ that will purge vile men like _me_ from their sins, hmmm?”

She smiled.

“Oh, no.” – she denied – “I am every bit of egotistical and twisted human being as you are, Vulpes.” – she said – “The only difference is… that I have embraced every light and dark corners that reside within me; unlike you, who lives so constrained and revulsed of your inability of living on your own without a leash around your neck that you are poisoning every shred of joy and pleasure that would make your penitence way easier than it already is.”

“I had but one goal.” – he lamented, though his face still remained impassive, like a mask one wore so often that one would end not discerning between porcelain and flesh – “A purpose you _so kindly_ took away from me when you denied your aid to the Legion.”

“Are you even hearing yourself?” – she asked – “You’re not speaking about the Legion or other ideals turning out wrong and misinterpreted from the mouth of a very convincing charlatan… you’re speaking about that trail of destruction I stopped you from carving it all over the desert’s skin; the same I did with your ex-comrade, Ulysses.” – taking his hand between hers, she added – “You were set on a path of destruction so interiorized that only death would have stopped it.”

“And why didn’t you kill me then?”

“Because, as I’ve said, I’m egotistical enough to deny a man his desire so I can attempt to reconduct his deviation to my convenience.”

“Then employ me as your eyes and ears! Let me be the hand that will strike your enemies from the shadows.” – his voice sounded dark, broken, pleading – “Give me back what you took from me a year ago.”

But she would shake her head. She would _dare_ to shake her head!

“You know.” - she spoke once again – “Ulysses had the will to listen, to change his views on the world, to changes his views on me, as flawed as I am. He even trusted me with the fate of the missile launch so he couldn’t act on his vengeful impulses.” – she sighed – “But you? You’re still every bit of the same embittered, hollowed, vengeful man I met at Nipton. The tires burning in your eyes as you gloated over the eradication of an entire population, sick and corrupted as they were. Will the opportunity would present again to you, you would act the same way without doubts or regrets.”

“Yes.” – he answered in all earnest, recalling the warmth that had spreaded all over his insensitive, cold body when he had contemplated his handiwork in all its stark glory.

“Then you have learned nothing from your punishment.”

His mind wandered far away… away, where heat would reach his skin, where desire would overwhelm any other feeling and numb the shame.

He had known since his teenage years that there was something _very wrong_ with him when a female slave or any other legionary would give him a kiss either by obligation or by silly, childish infatuation… and his body wouldn’t respond.

But then, when the need had arisen and he had disobeyed his Centurion’s orders and had broken the enemy’s defenses by capturing the chieftain from the tribe Caesar sought to conquer… the hatred, disgust, and betrayal he had seen on the Centurion’s eyes had stirred something in him that ten lashes on the back had quickly erased from his consciousness.

Later, when his work as a Frumentarius would lead him to campaigns or missions full of deceit and lies, the angry, hurt and betrayed look on his victims’ eyes had started to fuel a desire he hadn’t seen in its full crowning peak until he had plotted the betrayal on the Twisted Hairs, trusting as they had been when they believed that Caesar would allow them to retain their tribal identity if they served the Legion.

He had infiltrated their encampment, learned their weak spots… and had lead a full _contubernium_ to attack them in the still of the night.

The beheaded corpses, the fire and the destruction he had brought to the ones that had refused to de assimilated by the Legion had nearly put Vulpes to his knees, his chest and cheeks feeling warmer than usual, his heart pumping with adrenaline and his _pteruges_ effectively hiding the pulsating erection he had gotten at the very sight of destruction and pain.

Nipton, Nelson, Ranger Station Charlie, Quarry Junction… every successful plot would burn inside of him for hours and he would find himself awake at night biting down his hands from wandering lower and furiously starting to jerk himself.

The allure was beyond his comprehension, but when shame and revulsion had reached too high heights for his tastes had been at Searchlight.

He had plotted Searchlight’s demise at the hands of the radiation two of his men had unleashed by means of opening Pandora’s boxes that weren’t supposed to be opened ever.

The destruction he had brought upon the very landscape, the dying plants, the barren soil and the poisoned air had made him so hard that the mere graze of his _pteruges_ had made him spill himself all over.

But the erection wouldn’t lower.

Masturbation had helped very little when his reserves had been empty but the blood would keep his member painfully swollen like the head of some drooling monster coming from between his legs to mock him for his deviated inclinations.

He would bury himself within women who sought to engage him into sexual intercourse and he would find later use to them. He would seek to appease the growling monster claiming for more fire and misery to sate its hunger.

But nothing would help.

He would become oblivious to the Courier’s desire… and later, after barely three encounters with the woman, she would bring Lanius to his knees… and Vulpes had grown a taste of the destruction _her_ steps had brought with them.

The first time she had engaged him he had come to the bed, for the first time of his life, very willingly, open to new perspectives… to find that, if he didn’t think about all the mixed destruction both of them had brought to the Mojave, his body wouldn’t respond.

He would only feel joy in his own misery, and that way, he had submitted to the Courier, waiting for something that, with time and practice, would build a bridge between his confused mind and carnal desire.

But still nothing. True that the Courier was a true master at stimulating his body to take from him what she truly desired… to leave him hollow, mentally unsatisfied and angry.

So angry he would choke the life out of her just to feel the heat, the thirst that would never be appeased but calmed for a while when his nervous system would burn with the many tires he had used to scorch Nipton’s Mayor to the very marrow of his bones.

“Maybe… it is time to change tactics with you.” – he heard the Courier’s voice talking. He had the vague sensation that they had been walking, hand in hand, until he had found himself looking at the woman’s naked back, such low was the cut of her silvery dress from behind, when she would produce a key and insert it inside one of the lower rooms' door lock – “Punishment wouldn’t work with you… so let’s try _positive reinforcement_.”

The unlocked door guided both of them to a mild gloom inside a two-story suite.

Vulpes recalled this suite, it was were that _Degenerate_ of Clanden would mount his despicable snuff films.

It has been cleaned, though, but an odd odor permeated the ambient, as if…

The giant barred cage on the opposite corner caught his eye.

Inside the cage appeared to be a man lying down… a man bigger than he was used to see.

Snarling when he caught sight of both intruders, he lashed against the unyielding metallic bars to pronounce just one word.

A name.

**_“VULPES!!!”_ **

Blinking from the impression, the alluded man contemplated the other captive the same one would contemplate one rare specimen of an exotic, non-mutated animal.

He hadn’t recognized the other without his golden mask… but the roaring deep voice had given away his identity.

“Lanius…”

“He had to face worse punishment than any of you upstairs would face ever.” – the Courier sentenced as she gently nudged Vulpes to take a seat on one of the comfy armchairs that were mere paces away from the cage – “He was an animal and I had to deal with him in consequence.”

The brutish specimen that had been the former Legate had greatly diminished with lack of exercise and, as Vulpes noticed, lack of all the food his abnormal metabolism would require to sustain a body like his’.

He was stark naked and surrounded by chains that would grate against the bars each time he attempted to break through them without success.

The shame, hatred, desperation and, most importantly, _madness_ Vulpes found in his old adversary’s eyes operated an almost immediate effect on the Fox.

Suddenly, his pants felt too tight, too constraining… too _restrictive_ for the many attentions the Courier was doting his body with.

Her hands felt like coals over his skin, her tongue tasted deliciously sinful and slippery inside his mouth, her lips giving room to teeth that would draw blood from his own lips.

And he begged for more.

Her nails scratched behind his cranium and he literally _purred_ in pleasure while Lanius’ painful groans filled the background with the violence and misery that made Vulpes find peace with himself, as he was being only used as a tool to torture the former Legate, evidently deprived of sex and human closeness for a full year.

He wouldn’t be the hand behind the deed, only a very willing accomplice.

As her nails raked all over his already scarred back, Vulpes deepened the kiss, biting and suckling on her lips voraciously.

Her hard buttocks came to rest over his engorged crotch and tease him with slight rubbing, eliciting a groan so deep from the pit of his throat he wasn’t aware he was capable of.

When her hand finally came to rest over his trousers, he almost jumped at how over-stimulated he felt.

Painfully slow, she undid the buttons of his fly and she seized her price in all its pulsating glory.

“Come with me.” – she whispered, inciting him to get up from his comfortable position on the armchair to walk to the very confines of Lanius’ cage, his hard-on becoming as painful as he remembered when Searchlight had happened.

She had made him sit on the carpeted floor in front of Lanius’ raging form, the former Legate displaying the most frightening long and grossly bulging erection Vulpes had ever seen in another man.

But she would yank at a chain hanging from a complex pulley system that put Lanius inhumanly straight and with his hands far away from his crotch.

The man howled in wrath and desperation as he was deprived of immediate release.

Vulpes, on the other hand, had to appeal to restraint if he wanted to perform with optimal results. And, this time, he wanted the _best_ results the Courier would get out of him.

He wanted to pleasure her as much as she was pleasuring him by allowing to bathe in the _misery_ and _despair_ of his former adversary.

Caesar had chosen this filthy beast, this… crazed _animal_ to lead his Legion should he died.

Lucius had said it multiple times: why not naming Vulpes or even him as his successor? They both knew how to lead, they relied on strategy before charging blindly against the enemy, sacrificing good legionaries in the process just to obtain bloody carnage.

But Caesar had been _wrong_ , Caesar had been _weak_ ; so, the price for his short-sighted vision had been bitter defeat at these very hands that were doing wonders at awakening a part of himself Vulpes had thought long dead.

As he contemplated the impotent barking plea on Lanius’ eyes, Vulpes abandoned himself to the sensations her hands were creating around his member, her thumb sliding effortlessly up and down his length, precum making the task hot and pleasurable.

He weakly grabbed her hand when he felt himself at the brink of coming.

She rewarded his patience and endurance with a trail of small nipping from his earlobe to the start of his clavicle. They would later flourish like violet petals on his skin, but he didn’t care.

Once she positioned in front of him, she took her silver dress off and threw it far away. Her cheeks had colored like Vulpes had never seen in her before, her eyes shone with intoxicating desire and her lips looked tempting, impossibly red and wanton.

For she took his length briefly between those very lips, drawing circling patterns all around the girth with her tongue. Vulpes wasn’t actively trying to look distant or bored the way he had done on occasion just to spite her the same way his post-coital frustration had come after to laugh at him. He was genuinely enjoying himself this time and he was sure it was showing on his facial expression if his avidness translated into wanton hisses was any indication.

Besides, even if she held the true control over the situation as her teeth were as sharp as his own, looking at her pleasuring him so unhingedly in front of his former adversary was giving the former Master Frumentarius the most amazing pleasant chills he had ever experienced. She was doing _everything_ so damn right…

When she incorporated to straddle him, she was soaking wet as she took her panties aside and swallowed him without effort inside of her. And he kissed her lips, tasting himself on them.

And it felt unbelievably good.

She rode him for a while, first languorously slow, pinning him on the carpeted floor so deliciously, later with all the energy she had been reserved up to this moment.

The cage vibrated dangerously as Lanius strained against his chains, the sound he had been making becoming more primitive and animal by the minute. Ignited by the moment, Vulpes inverted his and the Courier’s positions and he charged onto her with wild abandon, his eyes first looking into hers, then locking onto Lanius’ as she moaned loud and aggressively under him.

 _I am pleasuring her._ – he thought, conveying each word into his heated gaze, knowing its meaning wouldn’t escape the caged beast mere paces from their intertwined sweating forms – _I am pleasuring the woman who conquered you, the woman who humiliated and destroyed you._ – then, an angulous smile spreaded all over his face, the skin around feeling taut – _I am having everything you’ll always crave and you’ll never have. And, for all of the above, I will enjoy myself as you suffer._

All those years putting up with bullshit coming from this _piece of meat_... enduring jabs, mockery, and even ridicule for the Master Frumentarius' lack of interest on the slaves... Now, everything was paying up at this very moment. He was the one having the most amazing sex session while Lanius' teeth grated the floor.

 _‘Fuck you_ ’ would be falling short, this was a cosmic Flipping Up - middle finger and boner along - with capitals.

His brain short-circuited, the nerves around his pleasure center sending the right waves to his mind creating a synchrony so magnificent and sweet he was now discovering why some people called this _le petite mort_.

Because he was dying. And he would die a very happy man for all he knew.

His enthusiasm grew so high and unbelievable monstrous that his pushing became violent, raw and wild as her moans became pure singing, inciting with her muscled thighs squeezing his hips so hard they would render hematomas later that he kept on it. Feral and unmerciful as the desert had taught her.

And he complied with utter devotion, groaning equally loud as her while Lanius' hatred combined with her juiced, hot inner walls made him burn.

When he felt himself at the brink of release, the Courier came first, and she came messily, biting down his right shoulder with such a force that he immediately came after her so hard that both of them had ended invariably stained with a mixture of gleaming fluids.

After that, looking at each other through heavy panting and still trembling on the floor, both of them started to laugh uncontrollably while the beast of a man raged far away from the newly discovered land they had teletransported themselves to.

Vulpes felt incommensurably joyous, his brain and body singing in perfect synchrony, his blue eyes alive and sizzling with laugh, making him look younger and full of life.

The Courier looked at him with a dreamy smile, loving to hear him laugh and loving even more the frustration she was bringing to a rapist monster as Lanius had been, many of his blinded surviving slaves had started talking after months of caring and gentle coaxing.

This was way too merciful for all the pain and sorrow he had brought upon those poor souls.

It was curious how her own brain would react in the face of revulsion and desire. She found Lanius repulsive while she found Vulpes unbelievable desirable.

Should the positions had been reversed, she would have done the _very same thing_ with a very different man.

Vulpes could count himself as a _very_ lucky fox that she found his eerily pale beauty more attractive than the once gorgeous animal the former Legate had been at the time of his capture.

_“From that day on forward, Vulpes and she would often come before Lanius’ cage to indulge in delicious sex that would return the color to his cheeks and the laugh to his eyes.”_

_“With each session, Lanius’ psyche would break even more than it already was until his speech became incoherent and his nature receded back to its original purpose: the nature of a caged animal who knew no gods, no masters and would bite the hand that fed him.”_

_“With each session, Vulpes’ need to gloat over other people’s suffering to keep his sexuality alive kept diminishing until he was able to disjoin both feelings. He would still remain a sadistic, cruel man who would find destruction, either physical or mental, an exciting pastime the Courier, when the need arose, allowed him to exercise from time to time. And he would savor the hard-earned price willpower and resilience had gotten him after suffering a year of humiliations."_

_“The Courier’s partiality to Vulpes’ atrocities due to her lust-induced infatuation drove Arcade outside The Strip, taking with him memories and a bitter disenchantment about his time nurturing a friendship with someone who, like many others that had come before the Courier, hadn’t deserved it.”_

_“Rose of Sharon Cassidy, against all precedents, married Cato Hostilius and took him far from The Strip to the West, where nobody knew him as he had played a really small role on the Frumentarii plots. They opened a bar that, in memory of Cass’ father, they named the ‘Spitoon II’. Cato would keep his wife out of whiskey while she would keep him out of trouble. They both lived almost double the years they had lived at the moment.”_

_“And the Courier… the Courier’s journey came to an end… Or that’s what she kept saying to herself as political webs with the NCR, her Great Khans Brothers and Sisters and the Kings evolved into more complicated schemes that Vulpes would always help her to solve… appealing to subterfuge and violence most of the time._

_Fully aware of the deep bottom end she had gotten herself by allowing the ex-Frumentarius govern her decisions when it came to punishment, she eventually gave him 'carte blanche' to re-establish Caesar's spy web with his former comrades to work under her orders... although that last statement was highly debatable._

_She knew she deserved it, so she came to accept that she wasn't better than Caesar, House or Kimball and acted as she was expected to: like the dictator the corrupted New Vegas needed. Such was the way of 'Democracy' in the post Apocalyptical world._

_Her movements over the chessboard, always subtly guided by Vulpes' hand, got her eventually more power beyond The Strip's confinements, her first victims being the Kings when they tried to fight back._

_But it was alright to her, for she knew that bad people like Vulpes and her would remain bad people till the end, and bad people always seek war against their neighbors._

_For war… war never changes.”_

* * *

**_THE END_ **

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: ... Yes, I'm definitely sick. Put the blame on mame, people.  
> And maybe it contains inconsistencies, blame this time the lack of sleep.  
> Actually, the main source of inspiration came from a small, very indulgent old video on YouTube:  
> https://youtu.be/FwMhP3MKBxw
> 
> Thoughts?


	2. The Legend of The She

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PLOT: basically, quoting White Bird with the Wild Wasteland Perk: "Take drugs! Kill a bear!" plus sex with twisted-up feelings, angst, and Legion's general dickery.  
> Having conquered Vegas and, after five years sending Frumentarii to no avail to deal with the Burned Man, Caesar - aided by the Courier - finally enjoys his sweet victory over the tribes at Zion... to face a new challenge: the local legend about a girl who chained her spirit to the Yao Guai that killed her, the Ghost of She.  
> Legionary after legionary is sent to deal with the issue to no avail... until the disappearance of Legate Lanius presents a defy Caesar's government cannot ignore.  
> Then, Vulpes Inculta and the Courier are sent to deal with this legendary phantom... to find more than they might possibly have bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: threesome (F/M/M) - (despite being the Ghost of She a Yao Guai, this is regular human porn, no furry shit, okay? Don't worry), very slight Slash!, drug-induced hallucinations, Legion's dickery, a bit of body horror and gore over there and there and a very gratuitous, very silly Wild Wasteland Zetans' theory ;)  
> Oh, and men's sexual slavery-ish. Yeah.
> 
> PD: revised the whole monstrosity, already given the tale more cohesion besides making it a bit more smutty while deepening the Courier's feelings for Vulpes, making the exchange more personal.

* * *

Tradition among the many tribes in Zion, most prominently The Sorrows, tells a story about a girl and a cave, and how imprudent games can turn into dangerous carnage when the wise words of your elders remain unheard to younger and inexperienced ears.

 _She_ , because the girl had but one day ahead before her Naming Day, was a curious soul, and a clever one. Her wiry limbs stronger than most boys on her tribe, her gait wider than many novice warriors… and her spirit as indomitable as the fire that would burn at night, keeping warm and illuminated many hungry mouths waiting for the hunters of their tribe to come back with freshly slain pieces.

But _She_ wouldn’t wait for the meat to come and, being taller than most boys that would boast about hunting radroaches and gecko hatchlings on their own, _She_ thought on making her mother proud by being _She_ the one who would bring food to the providential table.

This way, _She_ armed herself with her late father’s hunting spear and went on a dusk hunt, red lights pouring throughout the valleys, whispers of Cazadores buzzing in the air.

Climbing raspy, burning crags to a higher point, _She_ found a cave as dark as the night and went inside in search of her prey.

But prey _She_ fell to the roaring maws of a Yao Guai, and _She_ didn’t come back to her tribe the next day to claim her name, and _She_ didn’t bring prey to her mother, who mourned her bitterly, because _She_ had been her only child.

Whispers of this lost child prevailed for over a decade amidst the tribes of Zion, invoking her name as a cautionary tale for the unruly children who sought to wander alone at night without the gentle guidance of their elders… until, one day, a man came from the far West, bearing the long shadow of civilization with him.

He spoke very scarcely, but his words ran true and certain, earning many ears that would heed his advice. Because the man, a messenger who had tamed the Poisoned Rift and its disinherited guardian to the point the bombs from Back When had obeyed his command to aim their steely fangs to the Earth, had come bearing a message for the man who named himself Joshua Graham: _“Fear the Bull, for its sharpened horns have arrived to these lands to collect their prize.”_

The Burned Man, Joshua Graham, had disregarded the message and had answered with the words of a dead god he claimed had changed him into a new man: _“God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. Therefore, we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea, though its waters roar and foam and the mountains quake with their surging. **Psalm 46:1-3**.”_

But his god had failed him when he had needed him the most, for the day after this messenger of doom had arrived, many shadows had come after him, creeping their way silently through burning sands and cutting heat, bearing the colors of deceit and treason.

Their leader, a soft-spoken wolf in sheep’s clothing, had corralled the resistant tribes, one by one, and had delivered them words of cruelty and cold-hearted duty, calling them _weak_ , _barbaric_ and _disloyal_ when they had attempted to bargain for their freedom.

His words had brought fire, tears and death; and soon, the other tribes grew to know him as the Shadow of Doom, for the Doom itself had been the messenger himself, who had told the vicious leader of the Deceitful Men where lied the weaker points of these tribes’ hideouts so his men could exploit them.

The Sorrows wept for many killed Brothers and kidnapped Sisters, forcing the latter to bear the children of the men in crimson roaring their unstoppable forces from both West and East, successfully trapping the Burned Man and his people until a new baptism of pitch and fire was delivered to the already decaying flesh of Joshua Graham, efficiently finishing him when the cold eyes of the wolf in sheep’s clothing had supervised personally that he wasn’t thrown to any canyon and that his ill remains would burn even when the man had already stopped moving.

This way, the tyrannical _Pax Romana_ had finally arrived to Zion. And the 87 tribes who had rendered under Caesar’s boot had formerly become 94 in the desert where old vices were wiped to give birth to a new Rome and now, with the remaining four tribes on Zion rendering under Caesar as well, the count had raised to 98.

The horns of the Bull had carved a new path down the deep red canyon, forcing civilization and Martial Law on the hearts of its new subjects.

But the legend of the _Ghost of She_ would pass from mouth to ear in whispers regardless of the power condensed on the dictator’s fist, so he, equally irate and intrigued by this spirit everyone seemed to fear the more than his own Legate - a monster of a man covered in a golden mask with a cruelty to match the wolf in sheep’s clothing - called the Doom incarnate for his assistance.

“Ah, my good Nuntius.” – the old, grateful dictator saluted, watching with a slight pang of pride how the man who had saved him, the man who had orchestrated the fall of the Mojave at the hands of the Legion, came before him willingly and loyal as a dog, fist over the heart, then arm extended – “Always eager to serve, not even once did you displeased me. _Vultus est index animi._ **_(1)_** And I see determination in your face.”

“Determination is what has brought me this far, _Domine_.” – Nuntius, once known as Courier Six of the Mojave Express, answered. Once NCR, two bullets in the head had changed greatly his views when nobody would care about his conundrum… other than Vulpes Inculta and the offer he had extended to the now named Nuntius to serve the Legion, to serve Caesar – “So it is, with determination, how I present myself before you. Order, and I shall obey. Give me a target, and they shall either render unto you… or perish under your wrath.”

Vulpes Inculta, standing by Caesar’s left side, gave Nuntius a curt, almost imperceptible, nod of approval. He had taught the young man well, and Nuntius was a very adept pupil, always willing to first appeal for words, then violence.

Truly, a fine example of what a Frumentarius ought to be. Not for nothing, his undercover work for the Legion on NCR and House’s territories had delivered both the perennial dictator of New Vegas and Kimball’s heads on a silver platter for Caesar to stomp over.

Vulpes had never felt so proud of a man under his command.

However, his inner complacency was promptly shattered when the gravelly, slightly echoing, voice of _Legatus_ Lanius scoffed behind his mask. Sitting by Caesar’s right side, a female slave not older than twenty dwarfed and trembling on his lap as the Monster of the East caressed her naked shoulders like one would do to a dog.

“Pretty words coming from a pretty boy of the bland, Profligate West, how typical.” – he rumbled, his hand stopping at the base of the slave’s cranium, earning a quiet, frightened sob from her – “If you plan on fighting in our Lord’s name with just your words, I suggest you start with Vulpes here present, boy. Perhaps you will prove more than his match when it comes to bore each other to death… or perhaps that is _precisely_ what you two do when you are alone inside his tent, to _fight_ with your tongues.” – he suggested, malevolent.

“And that is _precisely_ a commentary I would expect out of an uncultured animal whose maxim in life consists in eating, sleeping, fighting and marring good healthy slaves that, otherwise, would bear healthy children instead of the marks of your deviant abuses, _Legatus_.” – was Vulpes’ immediate answer, his voice composed and monochord as if he were talking about the weather, his eyes set ahead of him, looking at an undetermined point in the tent's roof – “Of course… providing they survive the first night, that is.”

Lanius’ grasp around the slave’s cranium engulfed her throat and she started to make gaggling noises of asphyxia. He knew that would grate on Vulpes’ nerves as the Head of Intelligence, despite being sadistic to a fault in the battlefield, despised damaging both good soldiers that could serve Caesar much better alive out there, as well as good slaves that would contribute with their sacrifice as mothers and caretakers to their society.

For Vulpes, each Legion citizen, slave or not, had its due role to fulfill the same he had been doing since he could remember. Lanius’ complete disregard when it came to resources and human life, and his lack of love for the Legion was primarily why the two of them could barely look each other in the eye without wanting the other to have a slow, gruesome death at the hands of a nasty, particularly vicious sickness. Lacking any honor, nor dignity. Death on the battlefield was a too merciful end for such a lowly radroach.

On that, unbeknownst to any of them, they couldn’t agree more.

They only tolerated each other’s presence because Caesar said so.

“Children, behave.” – was the aforementioned dictator’s humorous quip, rolling his eyes – “See, Nuntius, what I got to suffer?”

Not wanting to displease his mentor by having a little laugh at his and Lanius’ expenses, Nuntius remained neutral, allowing himself only a slight acknowledging nod.

That seemed to suffice for Caesar as he kept talking.

“As you may have heard, there is this little tale circulating among the most recent additions to the Legion about a vengeful spirit they simply call _‘The_ _Ghost of She’_.” – he went on explaining – “Under different circumstances, I would not give the issue further thoughts… if it wasn’t because, apparently, it’s causing a small commotion among the troops.” – leaning forward, he continued – “I already ordered Vulpes to investigate the sources so he could finish the rumor for good… but he, instead, has brought upon me quite the… interesting results.” – making a small gesture with his left hand, he added – “Vulpes, inform our Courier about your discoverings.”

Vulpes took a step ahead and directed his cold blue gaze to Nuntius. A slight feeling of pity washed over him as he thought that, no matter the language, his pupil will always remain nameless, a shadow of what otherwise was a brilliant young man whose true name had been lost in-between two bullets.

Nuntius… “Courier”, he had been named by Caesar as his young face had been imprinted on the new _aurei_ coins.

A messenger, a nameless mailman.

Vulpes was glad that the young man didn’t have enough Latin knowledge to be aware of this fact.

“Following the trail of those superstitions, we came over a slave woman, Decima, whose tribal name had been previously Waking Cloud, a sort of Wise Woman from The Sorrows tribe instructed in midwifery and other sorts of useful knowledge pertaining to the female sphere that, if hesitantly at first, small ‘coaxing’ on our part rendered the story of a lost tribal girl, presumably killed by a Yao Guai more than ten years ago.” – a nameless girl for a nameless legend. A nameless courier for a nameless threat – “Many tribals still believe it to be some sort of vengeful spirit out of a hybridization between the dead girl and the Yao Guai that killed her. And none of their stronger warriors had been capable of putting such a spirit at rest.” – he felt a bit ridiculous laying out such a preposterous story, but what he said next gave him reassurance enough – “To test this theory, we also asked about the localization of the cave where, presumably, the girl was killed. To our astonishment, the woman pointed us to the former Shaman of her tribe, an old man that formerly went by the name of White Bird, who attempted to dissuade us into drinking a sort of spiced tea brewed specifically for this purpose.” – he allowed himself a slight _tsk_ – “Knowing the tribals’ inclinations to use Datura Roots on their spiritual concoctions, which are poisonous enough to induce the human receptacle into a state of hallucinogenic stupor, we declined and localized said cave to prove the foolishness of all, aiming to set example amidst the new slaves… however, the men I sent to this endeavor never returned.”

After his report was given, Vulpes took a step back to his Lord's side, Nuntius blinked twice while Lanius allowed himself a small bark of a laugh that almost made the girl on his lap fall to the ground.

“That speaks volumes about the Frumentarii and their _almighty_ leader.” – he scoffed – “A vengeful spirit! Ridiculous.” – he spat, his grave voice reverberating inside his golden helmet with distaste – “If you are not man enough to enter that cave alone and slay whatever beast that might still dwell there, Vulpes, I shall be the one who does the honors. After all, what could be expected from a group of honorless, backstabbing lot of coward schemers?” – he continued, Vulpes’ glacial sidelong stare proof enough of his triumph – “My Lord.” – he added – “Allow me the honor to slay the beast, if there is, indeed, a beast to slain in the first place; and bestow upon me the pleasure of reminding the slaves who they should truly fear.”

Caesar pinched his chin, pensively.

“Are you sure about this, Lanius?” – he asked – “I wouldn’t want to waste my prime Legatus’ services in campaigns that, perhaps, are more oriented on the exploratory side than outright blunt charge.”

Lanius had gotten up his chair, the slave standing on tiptoes as the gigantic man was grabbing her by her hair.

“My Lord.” – he replied solemnly – “ _I am_ sure.”

A week later, the Legate hadn’t made an act of apparition yet. Neither the men that had come after him had returned.

“This is the last straw, Vulpes, the fucking last straw!” – Caesar was bellowing, his usually good humor since he had recovered from his brain tumor intervention ruined when the chorus of slaves outside his tent sang for the umpteenth time a mourning lament in the name of the _Ghost of She_ ; no amount of punishment and whipping had proved enough to silence their voices – “Lanius has vaporized and this is quickly getting out of control!”

Impassive and silent as a statue, Vulpes stood by his Lord’s throne witnessing how the Son of Mars was losing it. And it wasn’t a pretty sight.

True that, deep inside, he was sizzling with merriment knowing Lanius’ bravado had gotten him in shit deep enough that he had been unable to get out of it by himself yet. If Vulpes managed to extract him alive from the cave – which, if the Master Frumentarius was completely honest, he wasn’t in any hurry to do so – he would be the laughing stock for the first time in his brutish existence.

Vulpes would relish the day, but he rather preferred Lanius kind of dead. Just to be sure the gigantic Monster of the East wouldn’t attack in retaliation if Vulpes dared to mock him for becoming a damsel in distress.

He might be a rat, but he was a cautious rat.

“What the fuck are we gonna do now, Vulpes?!” – he heard, from a distant part of his mind, how his Lord was still barking randomly like a fishwife in the market – “Do you know that this could start a revolution if we don’t manage to quieten them?!”

Vulpes blinked, directing a bored look to his aged Lord.

Mars above, but Caesar certainly looked _downright old_.

“Should I ask Nuntius to go _this time_ , _Domine_?” – he asked, emphasizing words very slightly, calmed and cautious the same – “If that is your wish, I can supervise the operation personally.”

Dropping back on his throne, Caesar massaged his temples tiredly.

“Whatever.” – he replied – “Fetch him, fetch fucking literally _anybody_ willing to help with this. At this point, I don’t care if Lanius is dead or not. I just want results.” – with this, he took his hand from his face and pointed the Master Frumentarius with an accusatory index finger – “You heard me, Vulpes? _Results_. Otherwise, don’t come back.”

Vulpes nodded silently and, once he got outside Caesar’s tent, he sighed tiredly.

Just _fun-fucking-tastic_. Now he had to pay for Lanius’ fuck-ups. His life was a joke.

Karma was a bitch, it seems. And he knew his’ was as black as the pitch he had used – for a second time – to finish the Malpais _Legatus_ and quieten with him the shrill of many cries his conquering on tribes during the early years of the Legion had brought.

Vulpes had awakened Nuntius from his late nap and had explained to him the plan he, more or less, had devised to get a feel on the field before taking any course of action.

Trusting as ever, Nuntius had listened to his instructions and, with a full _contubernium_ of men and the White Bird Shaman in tow to guide them, two days had taken to reach the infamous Ghost Den, a small valley area with steep walls, leading uphill and curving round to the right towards a dead-end, a ravine… in where the yawning, dark hollow of a cave was the only passage going further.

Numerous skeletons, human and animal alike, peppered the entrance.

After camping and assembling Vulpes’ contraband ham radio set feeding on a solar battery, they had made a couple tests before sending Nuntius inside, his Pip-Boy producing a signal the radio could detect and vice-versa.

He had been instructed to send recordings of his progress every five minutes.

After fifteen minutes, he had stopped retransmitting.

The only information Vulpes had managed to seize so far had been that the cave was way greater inside than an untrained eye would guess at first sight from the outside.

The cave ran deeply into the Earth and, before his transmission had been brusquely cut, he had mentioned everything being very dark and the smell of something metallic becoming greater as he had neared the bottom end.

The men had started to become nervous as the Shaman had started redirecting prayers in low voice in a mixture between Spanish, English, and gibberish. The night had poured all over the valleys, mantling their old wrinkles with a dark veil decorated with the twinkling pearls of the stars above.

Vulpes suddenly recalled how many nights he had spent, being a child, counting stars while his mother would invent some silly stories for each one of them.

Those were bittersweet memories and an unwelcome reminder that his service under Caesar’s rule had stolen all his dreams and beliefs that he had held true until the Legion taught him better.

The gods he now worshipped were not his original gods, the language he spoke wasn’t even remotely alike to his old language, his ideals didn’t match with the ideals his lost tribe had strived for.

He still found it difficult to address how he felt about it. Sometimes he thought that he didn’t harbor any feelings for it anymore. Maybe he wasn’t allowed to feel anymore. Maybe the Legion had been an answer to those silly fantasies, a dosage of reality in a reduced world full of superstition and ignorance.

Maybe he wasn’t allowed to believe in anything greater than Caesar’s mortal divinity.

Maybe it was best that way.

Once the Shaman’s chanting has stopped, he had approached Vulpes with a steaming wooden bowl between his hands and none of the men had attempted to stop him. He wore black tears over both his cheeks he had painted with the ashes of their bonfire.

“What do you think you are doing, old man?” – Vulpes had asked mildly irritated, hunched over his mute radio, still attempting to contact Nuntius in vain.

“Roots make sacred vision tea.” – the man had replied, offering to him a fragrant herbal concoction contained inside the bowl – “You drink, you see path before you.”

“Who has given you permission to brew such a thing?” – Vulpes questioned affronted, as he directed a hard stare to his embarrassed men while eyeing the liquid from time to time with evident apprehension – “And where did you get the ingredients for it anyway?”

The Shaman shrugged, his vocabulary evidently too limited to communicate everything… or his wit too sharp to make Vulpes believe in such a possibility in the first place.

“Drink. Tea is strong. Tea is bitter.” – he said, offering the concoction again to Vulpes – “Wisdom is strong. Wisdom is bitter. You see?”

Taking the warm bowl between his hands, the Frumentarius eyed the old man distrustfully.

“If I drink this… what will happen to me?” – he asked at last.

“Visions guide you, child of ill omen.” – the other replied enigmatically – “You listen? Maybe yes, maybe no.”

Repressing the disgusted grimace that was threatening to show on his features, Vulpes took a big gulp of air and downed it in one round.

It was true that it tasted bitter, but the warmth that spreaded down his belly felt slightly comforting. Soon, his eyes got sharper in the dark as his dilated pupils re-counted gleaming stars with the distant memory of his mother, recalling her silly stories, feeling like a child again once his weightless steps conducted him inside the cave. Living the thrill of doing something that, for a small boy, should be off-limits.

Darkness engulfed him like the maws of some Eldritch beast swallowing every bit of him, opening its belly for him.

The ground under his feet grew sticky with each step further inside, the metallic smell Nuntius had mentioned were pulsating all over his body and, at the same time, all over the walls of the cavern. Warm, liquid, alive as the beating of a heart.

He descended to a point the darkness had been absolute and he had started to conduct himself through the place by touch, a slightly bothersome beep filling his ears due to the pressure change.

He pressed on further, aiding his descent with clever hands that knew where to find crevices to hold onto… however, as the beeping augmented its intensity until it became painful, he didn’t perceive how his touch was accommodating the concave shape of something big enough to fill his entire hand.

Something hard, something hollow.

A sudden slip and his entire being skid downhill several feet that earned him a painful fall a spongy wall of mud ended cushioning, imprisoning him in a sticky embrace.

Vulpes fought his way out the unwanted embrace and his head pulsated, a thin wet trail of something warm and coppery sliding from his nose to his lips.

When he raised a hand to clean the blood, he found himself smeared further into the metallic tang… for every inch of his body leaked and reeked of copper and stickiness.

He repressed a scream of both disgust and astonishment when a small slice of light came from the cracked roof of the cave and found himself covered in red.

And the walls, and the roofing, and the floors were made of red.

Chunks of meaty, beating red.

Feeling like he was becoming mad by the minute and deeply hating himself for trusting the Shaman with his drugs, Vulpes’ ears detected a small chanting, deep inside the cave’s entrails.

It was a woman, this time, the one doing the chanting, an exact replica of the chanting the Fox had heard from the crazy old man.

But the chanting felt sweeter and even encouraging as he pressed on further, enchanted by the voice, inexplicably seeking the warm promises it held as if it were meant for his ears only.

A siren chant he wasn’t resisting at all, for he was no Odysseus, but a curious fox with way too many scars on his account to even worry over another one.

For he knew this encounter would scar him deeper than he already was.

But he couldn’t care less. Right now, he cared for nothing beyond meeting the owner of such a voice and drown in all the blood she would offer him. For blood was all he had known since his tribe had been wiped out of the face of the desert.

With blood had paid the price of his weakness and tribal ignorance, through blood he had become a man and in blood he had covered his victories, making the weaker pay his blood price.

And now, in blood he was baptized. Just the same Joshua Graham had been baptized in fire.

He found an illuminated tunnel that seemed to stretch for miles ahead of him. Or maybe it was the tea, playing tricks on him so he couldn’t reach the voice.

He felt like he had endured walking amidst sticky, squishy floors sucking his feet to his ankles as he pressed further, wading amidst broken tissue and slimy entrails until his boots followed his feet no more when he left them stuck on the red meaty mud and kept advancing barefoot.

Strands of red started to stay in the middle leaking from the distant roofing, and they became solid as he kept pressing on, strands becoming bones dripping red, bones becoming rotting limbs extending _rigor mortis’_ fingers to grab on him, difficulting his advance, blocking his path.

Enraged, Vulpes took the now reddened ripper that had been rested against his hip and cut his way merciless, paying no mind to the agonizing screams of a thousand dead men, but still seeking the feminine chanting.

Dead fingers pried at his armor, and he peeled it off, like the serpent changing skin, shoving it violently against the avid limbs, which took it and squashed it against meaty walls, veins and sinew growing over it like twisted plants of this raging inferno.

And he cried out in despair when many other rotten limbs came for him, his ripper drawing out more blood than he had seen together in all his life. He recalled Nipton and how empty tears for empty human disease of beings had attempted to appeal to his mercy.

However, he hadn’t shown any mercy, because he had been shown none.

And mercy he showed not to the dead souls surrounding him. While they kept calling him, he kept on cutting them down; the siren’s chanting out in the distance morphing slowly into laughter.

And then, the laughter gave way to a reverberating voice. Words weaving paths to his altered senses.

 ** _“I see no warrior in you, Crimson Man.”_** – the feminine voice said, addressing him for the first time – **_“For you thirst for no victory, nor the thrill of battle courses through your veins. You are a seeker, a seeker who hungers for answers.”_**

“That, I am.” – he whispered, the soft hissing of his words’ consonants echoing around the cave, multiplying – “But if a battle it shall be, a battle I shall fight. A Fox doesn’t flee, but hide in wait for a better opportunity to strike.”

Laughter again, though not entirely unkind.

**_“A Fox that dares enter the lair of the She-Bear is a valiant Fox… or a very reckless one.”_ **

“Try me.” – he challenged.

 ** _“That, I will do, yes.”_** – the voice answered again – **_“As I’ve done to countless others before.”_** – then, in front of him, a glade and a gleam, fire licking pelt and roaring drowning the feminine voice – **_“DEFEAT MY PHANTOM, FOX IN MAN’S HIDE, AND YOU SHALL FACE THE TRUE SHE-BEAR!”_**

Vulpes didn’t know if he was hallucinating anymore when the most vicious, monstrously towering Yao Guai presented in front of him bearing flames as a second skin.

It bared its blood-stained long fangs to him as it roared in defiance, getting up on its hinder legs.

Vulpes roared in equally defy as he rolled to the left when the supernatural beast aimed for his throat. Being so large, its movements were heavy and it took too a long time to recover from the charge when the Fox sunk his bitter blade into the beast’s right flank.

_Drums… drums in the still of the night._

A renewed roar and more charging, this time the Fox sliding down the impressive frame, cutting in half the beast’s belly, leaving a trail of charred entrails behind him.

_Crimson everywhere. Dozens of burning tents. Cries silenced. Pleas that went unheard._

However, despite weakening it, this didn’t bring it to its defeat, for even with dangling innards, the beast remained on its fours and, out of a sudden, multiplied in front of a very dazzled Fox.

_Savages dressed in crimson slitting throats of other savages dressed in pelts and rags._

He rolled over and over the meaty dirt, escaping fierce maws, dodging elongated claws that could cut a man in half with mere grazing, staining himself with blood and ashes, his tunic shredding, the pale, wicked scars all over his back showing his history, a survivor’s history.

_The weeping children were taken into custody to mold them into either slaves or soldiers._

His sight trembled, his brains no longer trusting his eyes but the hands that wielded an instrument of pain that had cut short many unworthy lives.

_None of the adults had survived._

He, ultimately, got corralled against a wall as the five flaming beasts eyed him with hunger.

But he hadn’t been made Caesar’s Head of Intelligence if he didn’t know how to use his own head to think, to observe.

He detected the common pattern and the distinct charred smell coming from the one.

The original.

Aiming with all his strength, he incrusted the ripper through the muzzle of the one at his very right side, sawing through bone and tissue.

A last pained, defeated roar and the copies turned to ashes as the original stumbled on its own weight and collapsed heavily on the floor, Vulpes coming down immediately after it.

After a while watching in wonder and silence his victory, the Fox started to laugh.

“Now, I got you.” – he hissed in triumph.

_War never changes._

However, his sight, due to the drugged tea, distorted even more, the painful beeping returning to his ears.

Suddenly, he wasn’t inside a cave made of guttered corpses, but his naked feet and knees blistered against the burning asphalt and his nose got overwhelmed by a different set of smells: charring, yes, but charring flesh and tires. Blood, yes, but congealed and stale after many hours exposed to the impervious sun… of the Mojave.

He was back again, back at Nipton and the rows of crucified men rotting under the scorching heat. The city’s Main Hall burning like a gigantic stake at his back, incinerating the many witches and faithless inside.

However, he didn’t turn around to be sure of that last perception as the Yao Guai’s corpse trembled, swell and ablaze pelt ripped down in half.

Amidst blood and charred remains, a pair of hands emerged, following slender but heavily muscled arms that made room for a head and, then, and entire body.

Holding herself mighty and powerful, a very tall woman stood naked in front of Vulpes, her impressive musculature had nothing to envy to the most fearsome Centurion.

She stepped outside the discarded flaming pelt of the fallen Yao Guai and, under her feet, the ground trembled.

Kneeling in front of her, completely terrified and completely taken, the Fox didn’t even flinch when She cupped his face with both of her bloodstained hands. Her yellow, beastly eyes boring into his own like coals as She murmured.

 ** _“No. I got_** **you _.”_** – after that, her lips claimed his, her tongue invaded his mouth, effectively trapping him between rows of sharp teeth, asphyxiating him. And his defeat tasted of blood and ashes when he lost consciousness.

* * *

He had regained consciousness with more blood and ashes filling his senses, his arms sore and his head spinning madly as he recalled everything.

But his sight hadn’t the mad wavy glow it has had before.

He didn’t know how many hours had passed, but he was sure that the tea-induced hallucinating state was over.

At least… he had been sure until he had seen her again.

She was taller than him, of that he was sure. And She seemed even taller and more menacing wearing a Yao Guai pelt all over her naked body. Clawed paws covering breasts and descending upon the bellybutton, firm stomach ending in increasing strokes of dark, delicate curly pubic hair. Hinder legs and short tail cascading behind her powerful legs like a bride’s veil. The muzzle of the dead animal over her head obscuring her eyes.

A wild huntress, mistress in a territory of her own, goddess on her own account.

But the pelt around her was burning, and She didn’t have any blisters and didn’t seem in pain.

Was he hallucinating again…?

 ** _“You are awake.”_** – She acknowledged, stepping near him, smiling a feral smile – **_“That is good.”_**

As soon as he tried to move - not really knowing if _towards_ her or _away_ from her – he realized two things: he was immobilized against cold rock with his arms above his head and he was… completely naked.

There was a whole karmic conspiracy against him, he was sure of that now.

However, he still didn’t know if luckily… or _unluckily_ for him, he wasn’t alone in his captivity.

Because several paces ahead, chained to the nearest wall in the same fashion as him, was Nuntius.

And he looked _terrified_.

Not many things had been able to shake the infamous Courier Six whilst he had exacted his vengeance out of the man who had sent him on an early grave and, later, had carried out his duty to Caesar all over the Mojave.

Not the Divide, not The Big Empty, not the Sierra Madre and, certainly, not the Burned Man.

However, this surpassed by far anything that one may consider ‘rational’. Could Nuntius see the burning hide as well… or it was just him?

 ** _“You two have managed to intrigue me…”_** – She spoke, her rumbling voice a caress as well as a stabbing to the gut. Eerie, primal, weaving civilized words in a world completely out of reach of civilization itself – **_“… much more than the previous one. Such strength, that one, such relentlessness, such raw power… and such a lousy lover in the end.”_** – She pouted, but her pout had nothing cute and everything feral – **_“All taking, giving nothing. He didn’t last very much in the end, though. Very disappointing.”_**

Nuntius and Vulpes exchanged a very meaningful look: if She was referring to Lanius, both of them were doomed. If this beast of a woman had managed to subdue and finish the gigantic _Legatus_ this easily, they had next to no chances of surviving this.

Did they?

 ** _“I was starting thinking that, perhaps, one man alone couldn’t satisfy me… and here you two happen to land on my lap almost at the same time.”_** – She purred like a giant feline would have done – **_“I’m curious to test you out. And your scars…”_** \- She sighed in delight – **_“A Messenger with a broken head and a Fox with a broken spine. Men with roads behind them. And so pretty, the two of you.”_** – She laughed – **_“You don’t know what tasty treats you are for the She-Bear.”_**

Nuntius looked as white as a paper sheet. Vulpes, however, kept his cool and sized the woman in front of them with a critical eye: taking out of the picture the freaky as Hell burning Yao Guai pelt, She could be considered to be a _very_ appealing female… if one ignored the supernatural strength, the superior height and the way She seemed to address male company as if they were dishes for a dinner, but whatever.

She had defeated them, honor dictated they should bend to her wishes, for She had decided to spare their lives. There was no humiliation in servicing a powerful woman who may accept one of them as a good candidate for breeding… should they performed to her expectations.

It could be worse. Besides… She had the body of a goddess.

A goddess of war and blood.

She wanted to engage them? He wasn’t going to be the one to say no.

Besides, Caesar had told him not to return unless he accomplished this mission, so… that left the Fox with just one alternative: survival.

Being under Caesar’s boot or pinned to the ground by this colossus of a woman didn’t make much difference to him.

A slave is a slave regardless of the Master holding the leash. You served them well, you got rewarded.

Caesar had given him power and a leash longer than many, let’s see what else She would give to him.

So, when the self-proclaimed She-Bear got in front of him, took his chin and lift his face, Vulpes didn’t attempt to resist. In fact, he didn’t want to resist at all when She swept a calloused, clawed thumb throughout his lips.

However, the nearness of the ablaze bearskin made him flinch when it got too close to him. She noticed and smiled.

 ** _“Daring, daring Fox. You were the only one brave or desperate enough amongst the Crimson Men to drink the bitterness of wisdom before facing me.”_** \- She purred – **_“Now, your eyes travel between realities while others only perceive shadows.”_**

Stealing a glance towards Nuntius, Vulpes saw the younger man trembling. Could this be true? That, whereas Vulpes saw a goddess, Nuntius was totally unaware of what they were facing?

The Master Frumentarius could understand the fear of the unknown. That was the main reason why men killed each other when their ideals differed on a scale bigger than their egos.

She untied Vulpes’ arms and he fell on his knees on the cold, hard ground.

 ** _“That’s where I want you.”_** – She warned – **_“Until I say otherwise, remain there on your knees. Displease me, and you shall face the consequences of invoking the wrath of the She-Bear.”_**

Then, She turned to Nuntius.

 ** _“Are you going to behave like that clever animal over there…”_** – She told him, taking his chin a bit more forcefully than She had done to Vulpes while pointing to the latter – **_“… or are you going to need to be reminded of who owns your blood now, Messenger?”_**

Nuntius swallowed. Hard.

“I…” – he began to say until her powerful hand seized his throat.

 ** _“I didn’t give you permission to speak!”_** – She roared – **_“I prefer my men quiet… until I say otherwise, that is. Men usually speak deceit, so I prefer their actions do the talk for them. Understood, Messenger?”_**

Nuntius inclined his head, choking slightly.

**_“Are you going to be complacent and doting to the She-Bear?”_ **

The young man nodded obediently.

She released him.

**_“Now, go and kneel next to the other.”_ **

He obeyed once again, creeping his way towards his mentor.

 ** _“More challengers have descended onto the lair of the She-Bear.”_** – She said, delighted; her voice growing distant, her silhouette of flames and ashes cutting against darkness, morphing into the likes of a beast – **_“You may wait for me here until I’ve dealt with them… pretty men of mine.”_** – She added, almost coquettish, like a young girl on a date.

And, with that, her form coalesced into embers that penetrated the dark, leaving behind only a pair of yellow eyes that closed after a while.

“This is our chance!” – Nuntius hissed, as if afraid She might hear him – “Let’s get the Hell out of here!” – he added, taking Vulpes by the elbow.

However, a look of bewilderment and incomprehension took over his features as the Fox twisted his grasp with a wrestling technique as he pinned the younger man’s cranium in a headlock to the hard ground.

“What do you think you’re d…?!”

“Quiet.” – Vulpes shushed in response. His tone cold and firm – “Have you not heard her? Do you want to face a punishment so great not even the Butcher was able to survive?”

“ _Her_?” – Nuntius repeated as if he hadn’t heard him well – “How can you call that… _thing_ a ‘her’?”

Vulpes raised a questioning brow.

“Because She is a woman.” – he replied.

“What?!” – in Nuntius’ voice, Vulpes heard incredulity – “What are you on, Vulpes?!”

The Master Frumentarius forced his pupil’s arm joint until it was near popping out.

“I would suggest to mind your words when addressing me, _Courier_.” – he hissed, watching the other man’s hurt look transforming his face into something younger and too soft to be called a legionary. The same lost boy that happened to stumble upon the smoldering ashes of Nipton asking questions, seeking guidance, agreeing too quickly to spread the Fox’s message, questioning if they would meet each other again at some point – “Now, by the time being, if you want to survive, you will do as I say and remain here until She decides what She wants to do with us.”

“But…” – Nuntius argued, still not grasping the gravity of the situation – “That thing… you’ve heard what does it… _she_ wants to do with us!”

“I am very aware of that.” - was Vulpes’ unmoved reply.

“But… are you not worried about her nature?!” – Nuntius tried one more time – “That thing… is neither an animal nor a woman! I’m not even sure that she’s not an alien or something like that!”

“A what?” – asked the Master Frumentarius, puzzled.

“Have you never heard about these green people coming from the space?” – watching Vulpes lack of a reaction, he pressed - “Zetans? Big heads and fragile bodies? Tech beyond human comprehension?”

Has the boy had gone already mad?

“I am afraid those bullets left you a deeper mark than mere scarring, Nuntius.”

“Says the one who’s high on whatever weird shit tribals cook around these parts!”

He hadn’t time to punish his pupil’s disrespectful behavior when something told them her presence was near. Again, nothing but an ephemeral sensation.

“Behave.” – he instructed the younger man – “Follow whatever signals I may happen to give you and endure.”

“But… this is slavery!” – Nuntius protested, getting up to kneel in line with his mentor.

“Poor Courier, what gave you the impression that, under Caesar’s rule, would you remain a free man?”

“What?!”

“You were a slave, always.” – Vulpes informed him coldly – “Since the very moment you pledged your loyalty to the Son of Mars.”

He felt no pity when he contemplated the bewildered, then betrayed, then disenchanted look the younger man gave him. Those emotions Vulpes had come to recognize very well throughout the years… in the eyes of the many tribals he had betrayed, the many men he had sold into slavery and the many women he had lied to.

He knew he was a rat. The worst of his kind.

But he still was a very much alive rat. And he intended to keep it so.

Then, yellow eyes raised their lids from the dark, a feminine laugh accompanying the flames licking every inch of the She-Bear’s magnificent body, like a mantle of war and purity alike.

Despite her threats and commanding attitude, She was everything a warrior could aspire to have in his bed. For a true man wouldn’t seek the attentions of a broken woman, but one who could become his match in all the sense of the word.

She was mesmerizing.

Vulpes was the first one to throw himself into her toned arms as soon as She gave them permission to touch her. And, to Nuntius’ astonishment, he seemed _eager_.

He had never seen his mentor eager, nor _willing_ , to throw himself into anybody’s arms before.

 ** _“Aaah, enthusiasm…”_** – She sighed, clearly pleased, raking her nails up and down the Fox’s scarred back when the man started nipping delicately her clavicle and breasts, the height where his head reached the most without having to strain his neck upwards – **_“Let me show you how you may pleasure the She-Bear.”_** – She added, extending a hand towards a suddenly shy Nuntius, who ended taking it anyway, unsure at how to proceed but, ultimately, taking on the subtle guidance Vulpes’ hands taught him while conducting his’, silently telling him where he should grab the female colossus while positioning at her back. The Courier’s tact guided him rather than his sight, caressing and kissing soft, taut muscles of the planes of a very human back ending in delightful wide muscled hips and firm buttocks.

The flames around her body didn’t burn the two men pressed against her firm flesh, but rather expanded onto their bodies as well, igniting each nervous ending slowly, a persistent, constant caress engulfing every physical sensation. They would burn with her and She would welcome them gladly.

Soon, they learned that, despite her feral appearance, the supernatural woman enjoyed being kissed and caressed thoroughly, nudging them to worship her brutal body gently, massaging her soft breasts and inner thighs while they kept taking turns exploring her burning, intoxicating mouth, tongues itching to slide inside swollen lips, stealing wet kisses that tasted addictive, sweeter than any ripe honey mesquite both men had ever sampled.

And, soon, reluctance won over Nuntius’ addled brain, joining in the shared madness, abandoning himself to the woman his skin perceived but his traitorous eyes kept on taking away from him.

So, he willed himself not to watch, but rather feel the maddening combination of her steaming skin and the occasional brush of Vulpes’ disquiet hands roaming, taking his’ to accommodate his fingers to more deftly brushing around this delicious body that kept them apart.

For apart they had been right from the very start despite the young man’s subtle maneuvers to keep finding excuses to be in the Fox’s presence. The only human being who had been patient enough to wait for the Courier’s answer to his invitation to met Caesar. The only one who had offered him a place to stay despite not knowing where his allegiances had lain.

The only one who had never given him the ‘Profligate’ treatment.

For, since he had met his now mentor, Nuntius had been repressing a part of him that, either by Benny’s doing or because of how the Legion frowned upon such things, he had thought filthy and disgraceful. A part of him he now was feeling reactivated at a comfortable, languorous pace, making slowly peace with himself about how he had wished that Lanius’ taunts about his and Vulpes’ relationship had been much more than strictly professional. About kissing passionately inside the Master Frumentarius’ tent, stealing a forbidden moment in time while outside, life kept ongoing.

Was so bad finding relief in a feminine body but, at the same time, wishing his mentor would whisper for him in that serpentine voice of his, trapping his breath with those thin, cruel lips of his?

Oh, how his cruelty hurt him, how his detachment maddened him! The man had been unreachable, untouchable. His cold eyes always making a disinterested pass over any other human being, calculating, remote… inhuman.

He had thought Vulpes incapable of feeling joy. Incapable of becoming a fully devoted lover beyond his spy cover while passing through Profligate territory, meeting women’s wishful looks with a charming, yet remote smile.

Each time had been painfully obvious to Nuntius that he would never end being the receptacle of those attentions, as cold and insincere as they had been. With Vulpes, everything had been schemes, planning, orders, training… and hopelessly following him around like a rejected puppy once Vegas had become Caesar’s.

His obsession, in a moment of weakness, had driven the former Courier once to the arms of a young recruit that had bored a slight resemblance with the Master Frumentarius, creamy pale skin, dark brown crew cut, cold blue eyes and all.

The recruit had been shy and unsure, too into Legion’s indoctrination’s crap to share more than timid groping and a few stolen kisses. It hadn’t help that, each time he had opened his mouth, it had been painfully evident to Nuntius that the young lad was no Vulpes.

Nobody had a voice like Vulpes’. Nobody spoke like him.

In the end, the affair thankfully hadn’t progressed further: while the boy had wanted a bit of experimentation, the Courier was too a famous figure within Legion ranks to keep the charade much longer whereas Nuntius had stopped deluding himself searching for poor substitutes to a desire he saw as filthy as the sins Vulpes had accused Nipton of committing before they had met their impending demise.

He didn’t want to become a pariah in a society that frowned upon such inclinations. He just wanted to belong somewhere. Vulpes had given him the chance. It had seemed like spitting in his face.

So, the once Courier Six of the Mojave Express had made a point to bury deep down those desires that had only but left feelings behind. It had been best that way.

And now… the object of his forbidden desire was equally naked as he was, equally vulnerable under this beast of a woman’s paws. And he was enjoying himself.

Nuntius had never seen Vulpes enjoying himself with, virtually, _anything_. As if life, in general, lacked any passion for the man.

So, watching him worshipping flesh this devoutly, finding joy even if it was in the body of someone else, another entirely different sanctuary, was making the Courier rejoice with him.

This way, Nuntius grew hard hearing his mentor trailing soft kisses down the woman’s body, nearing her core, the younger man’s fingers digging into solid buttocks as he also teased her folds delicately from behind, earning a deep moan out of her.

The instant he felt Vulpes’ tongue circling her peak, Nuntius felt at the brink of tears and, when it slide between her slick folds, the Courier bit down his lower lip until he drew blood. His erection digging with painful need onto hard, feminine flesh wishing it were those thin, cruel lips around it.

Then, his mentor’s long, dexterous fingers found his' and… their joined digits penetrated tight walls dripping burning juices, rubbing them, sliding in and out. The enormous woman’s throaty moans rumbling along her body, vibrating against his cheek. And Nuntius felt that, if those very juices would peel skin and sinew from their bones with their heat, he would gladly accept the pain if his and Vulpes’ fingers remained together in the end.

He bit on hard flesh when the Fox bit on a sensitive inner thigh, earning a pleased roar. And he kissed in-between her shoulder blades when Vulpes’ kisses drew a path upwards flesh again, wishing that those kisses were delivered upon his lips, nipping and biting, as he suspected the Fox would never be a tender lover with another one than this supernatural female entity.

Nuntius buried his face onto long, silky dark hair whereas She caressed Vulpes’ cropped hair, purring in delight at the two men’s attentions.

So, when She lowered to her knees so both of them could reach her completely, Vulpes kissed her avidly on the lips, devouring her mouth whilst She positioned over him, riding his desire for her, leaving her rear for Nuntius to sate his aching need when he, achingly slow so She wouldn’t become offended for a hard intrusion, entered her, opening his eyes for the first time.

He could see the spirit, the woman, the girl, the huntress, the goddess, ablaze and real as the day and night.

But he could also see Vulpes. His perfect, pale naked body burning below the woman, undulating under her loving ministrations as he got his favors fervently returned, his slightly open mouth a row of white sharp teeth, his blue eyes… alight in the dark.

He charged onto the woman’s body while looking Vulpes in the eyes, the other man’s semblance as She kept riding him morphing into something unnatural, primal… _animal_.

It soon became too much.

Nuntius came violently, without expecting it at all, leaving him trembling and disoriented as he crept backwards on his elbows and buttocks when She lunged onto Vulpes with a hungering roar, pinning him on the floor with her hands against his shoulders, their intertwined forms kissing, dancing, worshipping one another… their hides shifting from human to animal, a gigantic red She-Bear with yellow eyes and a small, blue-eyed black Fox.

Vulpes’ wiry form arched below hers as his long fingers sank deep on her hips, his mute orgasm the most beautiful thing Nuntius had ever watched. And She came on him, the fire engulfing them like a living pyre.

And their forms shifted once again.

Neither humans nor animals, both shapeshifting creatures ended their transformation and burned amidst fire and ashes.

“Vulpes!” – Nuntius exclaimed, reaching for the now placidly lying man/animal.

However, interposing between them, the red bear growled at him menacingly.

 ** _“A Fox for a Bear.”_** – She spoke, and her voice was thundering, the earth trembling around them – **_“A House for a forgotten Nation. A Burned Man for a dead God. Mutated Soldiers for a cruel Master. Rotting survivors for a lost War. A Brotherhood for missing Siblings. Followers for a forsaken Cause.”_** – the voice became indistinguishable, the woman becoming the bear, forgiving her past, becoming one with her animal killer, claiming her history, her failed hunt… surrendering to sleep – **_“Those, you betrayed in the name of a Bull, but you pledged yourself to the Fox instead. You walk a solitary path, Messenger, and I will not be the one to stop you… You are free to leave the lair of the She-Bear.”_**

“I… I am?” – he asked, incredulous.

 ** _“You are.”_** – She confirmed – **_“You may leave with your message at your back, bearing sins that can’t be seen.”_**

“Vulpes…?” – he asked, hopeful.

**_“He will stay, his spirit trapped between the Bull’s horns for too long for him to abandon his cruel master.”_ **

“NO!” – Nuntius shouted, getting up and adopting a defense position, naked and vulnerable as he was before the bear, the legend, the _Ghost of She_ – “I will not allow you to have him!”

 _“Courier!”_ – a hiss and blue flames engulfed the slender silhouette of Vulpes Inculta, human but not human. There, but not there when Nuntius’ fingers attempted to grasp at him and held the air – _“Caesar ordered me to either succeed in this mission… or never ever return to his side.”_ – he said, his voice echoing whispers in the deep – _“And I chose to remain here.”_

“But…” – Nuntius muttered, eyeing the ethereal effigy with pained eyes – “Why? I don’t understand…”

 _“Tribals are not the same as the ones who, like you, came from a more civilized world. A world that created us in the first place by dropping the bombs, just as you did in Ashton.”_ – his blue eyes hardened – _“We don’t guide ourselves by your beliefs, we reverted for a reason. And I chose to stay for that very reason. Civilization is a lie and, with it, all the tyrants that want to rule over it. I had forgotten.”_ – he added, his voice sounding sincere, more human than when he had been fully human – _“Forgotten our ideals, forgotten our beliefs, forgotten what was to be in touch with the animals that names us. Antony knew… he still remembers his own.”_

“Come with me.” – Nuntius, Courier Six of the Mojave Express, pleaded – “We will escape Caesar’s wrath, we will go full East, to the coast. There are more forms of civilization than you can imagine! We can choose!”

 _“I don’t want your civilization, just as I’ve never wanted Caesar’s.”_ – replied the Fox, reverting from human to animal alternately, his lips still so beautifully cruel… - _“I’ve worshipped a false god for so long that I needed to be reminded… reminded of what was like to be a man again… reminded of the Old Ways, reminded of the fire that wiped my tribe and I myself used to wipe filth from the desert as well. Pleasure and pain, history and identity.”_ – blue flames shifted - _“Go, with the Old World banner. See if there’s still greatness to find in the deceased America.”_ – his voice, as well as his semblance, softened – _“Count the stars in the road ahead of you. One for each story on your account… even me.”_

“NO!!!” – the Courier… the Sixth… Six… yes… he was the sixth courier… he was… Six… cried – “VULPES!!!”

Darkness poured around him like a sea of ink… ink to write down stories, stories of a man and a Fox sitting together. The man had attempted to befriend the Fox by getting a bit closer each day… but the Fox would only drift away, licking his whiskers with hunger never sated, saying that domestication wasn’t meant for a wild animal like him.

The Fox had jumped on the She-Bear’s back and had departed to the forest, where he belonged, and the man, a boy, had cried for his loss.

Between dreams and reality, days later, Vulpes Inculta’s _contubernium_ had found the Courier unconscious and naked in front of the cave’s entrance. The entrance had been sealed with a landslide.

White Bird had only sighed, shaking his head mournfully and praying for many passing souls between this world… and the next.

_“After awakening to a celebration inside one of Caesar’s healing tents, the Courier had accepted congratulations from many high-ranking Legion officers with void eyes until Caesar himself had made an act of apparition and had praised him, ascending him to Vulpes Inculta’s position, no words for the missing Master Frumentarius or the Prime Legatus were said in their honor, already forgotten either as failures or casualties, as Aurelius of Phoenix took the latter’s position as well._

_However, when he recovered enough to start his duties as Master Frumentarius, the Courier traveled onwards the desert, bearing with him a mission he never completed, leaving behind the Legion to crumble on its own when the next year, due to health complications, Caesar died at the cold hands of a brain embolism and Lucius came to sit on his throne, fighting for remain in control of a rebellious Legion that, led by a slave woman, Decima, formerly known as Waking Cloud, wished to revert to their tribal roots.”_

_“As for the Ghost of She… Zion Canyon became a place of worship, where common sightings of a female Yao Guai and a strange, cunning small black animal with eyes as blue as the sky, played chasing one another, always leaving a trail of scorched earth that, later, would render fertile soil for Sacred Datura flowers to grow.”_

* * *

**_THE END_ **

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LATIN:
> 
> (1) - "The face is the index of the soul."
> 
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> A/N: ... Yep. I do drugs xD Nah, just kidding. Sorry it came out this way, sad and all; but to write meaningless porn it seems an insurmountable task for me at the moment.  
> Sorry to turn upside down steamy expectations into plain angst. This was mostly an experiment, just as much as the previous One-Shot. Cannot trust me with straight-up smut, noooo xD


	3. Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PLOT: the Courier arrives at Fortification Hill, unleashes havoc, and captures Caesar and his Commanders alive inside his tent to have her merry way with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: non-consensual drug use, Slash!, Femdom, anal fingering, sex toys, whipping, blood, and violence.
> 
> PD: first One-Shot I write without a bigger backstory. Vulpes here is one of the victims, not the main protagonist, but I've posted it here because is smut. And it has Vulpes. So... :D

* * *

The Son of Mars, conqueror of 87 tribes, perpetual dictator, charismatic leader and a man of letters, Edward Sallow, a self-proclaimed _Caesar_ for an American Legion two-hundred and four years after a nuclear Armageddon had wiped out all manner of civilization from the face of Earth, watched in stupor and horror how the system he had been carefully constructing for the last thirty-five years around Old-World History and the impressionable minds of backward tribals collapsed around him like a house of cards as the Avernus had unleashed inside his tent.

He barely recognized his men, once remarkable individuals that had held his most complete trust… now puppets under the combined effects of a lethal cocktail of drugs, aphrodisiacs, torture, whips, chains… and relentless sexual brainwashing twirled and contorted around in the dirt like beasts, half-maddened, half-delirious in their own personal traps.

Evil had come crawling its way from the West, an early grave and two bullets to the head chasing a prey.

Edward recalled the Frumentarii reports, the scattered oddities that should have been warnings enough over there and there: a prison full of dangerous ex-convicts cleaned to the slate, the rest of the Northern territory wiped from them, even that abandoned Vault East of Bonnie Springs; another Vault full of drug-addicted raiders filled with lethal dosages of poisoned gas whereas the surrounding area had been mined until only chunks of flesh and blood had covered the diameter from Camp McCarran to the Old Sarsaparilla HQ; the heads of the also raiding inhabitants of Monte Carlo Suites blown off; the Gomorrah casino at The Strip burned to the ground; The Ultra-Luxe hotel razed to the workers’ very bones' marrow… all had been nests of corruption, vice and dark secrets effectively sanitized out by the very hand of this monster encased on the slender – almost androgynous – body of an angry mailwoman.

Not even the infamous Benny Gecko, her wannabe-murderer, had escaped her wrath when she had hung his’ and his security staff’s bodies in front of The Tops’s main façade casino.

She was a woman that got things done, something that Edward had grown to appreciate as the reports had kept pouring in. Even Vulpes Inculta – usually an indifferent agent amidst Profligate territories – had shown an odd appreciation, even fascination, over this intriguing female who had walked in Nipton to witness its massacre – massacre Vulpes himself had orchestrated using a lethal lottery as an excuse – and hadn’t flinched even once.

So, Edward had given the Master Frumentarius the order to extend to her his Mark.

His Mark had served her as an invitation to his camp at Fortification Hill in the hopes of striking a deal with such a fearsome figure, seeking to enlist her to his cause against the NCR.

How wrong he had been.

She had arrived at sundown, red light pouring over the solitary hill that the camp had been constructed around, his personal tent crowning over it.

A routine check in search of weapons and forbidden chems later and then, her squad of allies had poured in like the Horsemen of the Apocalypse, crushing down his legionaries like bugs, filling the encampment with lead and blood in search of their Commanders.

They had brought in Antony, Otho and Lanius whereas Vulpes and Lucius – both of them staying loyally by his side - had been quickly subdued, all chained down to chairs around the table of his strategy room. A mocking reunion for all the higher echelons, Edward himself presiding the head, gagged and tied to his throne, a thick metallic collar around his neck keeping his back straight against the throne’s backrest, tightly chained so he couldn’t lower his head. Two strips of sticking plaster on each eyelid so he couldn’t close his eyes.

He had been the only one who had remained chained to his assigned spot.

The only one who had remained untouched and aware.

Once all the due preparations had concluded, the woman’s cohorts had left her alone in the tent with him and his men. A menacing-looking metallic suitcase left over the strategy table, revealing its contents for them to watch in weary confusion: Police handcuffs, manacles with chains, riding crops, a whip and several electrical devices shaped in different sizes of cylindrical, very suspicious forms.

But the thing that had got every single one of them break in a cold sweat had been the hidden compartment of the suitcase, which she had opened to reveal a syringe and many test tubes filled with an opaque, whitish fluid she had loaded into the syringe, riding off the bubbles so it wouldn’t cause unnecessary blood embolism.

After all, she had wanted them alive to endure what was coming for them.

The first one going down had been Lanius, humiliated and unmasked, as this inhuman woman everybody called “The Courier” had injected on his neck the whitish fluid that, later, she had revealed it to be a mixture of Med-X, Nightstalker squeezin's, Cazador and Bark scorpion venoms, Psychojet, ant nectar and ant queen pheromones.

How such a chemical bomb didn’t kill a man instantly on the spot was small wonder given the Courier’s fame for being a sort of an alchemist, having learned from the Khans, whose alliance with the Legion she had botched as soon as she had set foot on Red Canyon.

Edward had been ready to forgive such a grave transgression in favor of securing her services… but he hadn’t got any chance to talk with the woman as she had been the one calling the shots since she and her companions had trapped and reunited him and his trusted men on his tent, all gagged without a chance to speak their minds… or scream for mercy.

For, mercy, if he had been offered the opportunity, he would have begged for if he had known what this diabolic woman had had in store for them.

Lanius had struggled all the way, roaring and biting in his gag, his hard muscles inhumanly tense against the chains until the cocktail had started kicking in.

Every last of them had shown different reactions to the drug, and Lanius’ had been getting a monstrous erection where precum had been so inhumanly abundant that it had slid down his length to his balls to get lost in between his hard buttocks, where the Courier had plugged in one of those cylindrical devices, a medium-size, that she had activated to vibrate inside him, rendering the Legate a mess of roars and undignified whimpering, begging for a relief that never came as the sickening woman had strapped around his bulging, veined member a metallic bracelet that was wide enough to encompass his whole girth, but tight enough to impede ejaculation.

The Courier had done this in front of the rest of the terrified, gagged, naked men, still clear from her drug and already wetting their respective providential _pteruges_ in fear.

Her hands had pinched and twisted Lanius’ nipples, her long nails raking up and down his sculptured torso and inner thighs, maddening him with over-stimulation when she had slid in and out a few times the vibrator until she had secured it inside with a leather strap, maintaining his hands and ankles chained together tightly so he couldn’t take the sex toy off his ass.

Otho had been the next, his angry, incredulous growling Edward bet it had been cussing words all along… had been silenced when the drug had rendered him extremely pliable, docile, almost whimpering, kneeling in front of the evil woman with glassy eyes as he had licked her desperately, her right foot over his shoulder and her left hand yanking at his short hair painfully while she had guided his lips where she had wanted them, ordering him to fuck her with his tongue and slapping him hard in the face each time he would do something to displease her.

Antony’s reaction, Edward found to his much chagrin, hadn’t been surprising at all: crawling on all fours, howling like a bitch in heat, he had allowed a dog collar to be put around his neck secured by a leather leash that the Courier had been holding with her remaining hand until she had ordered him to enter Otho from behind, earning moans of ecstasy from both men as Antony’s precum had been plentiful as well, so it had worked as a lube to aid in the penetration, which she had ordered for him to do slowly, teasingly, having rubbed the other’s man entrance with the slippery tip of his cock several times before she had allowed annexing.

When she had tired of Otho’s lip service, separating his eager, moistened lips from her labia with her right foot on his shoulder, she had ordered him to take Lanius in his mouth while Antony had kept on his wild ramming from behind, his leash ending tied around Otho’s balls and erected penis over his shoulder so the Houndmaster’s head remained over Otho’s shoulder, sticking the former’s chest with the latter’s back, flesh meeting flesh and loud slurping the only sounds filling the tent when she had approached her next victim.

Lucius had endured a long, useless resistance against the drug effects until she had chained him to one of the tent’s poles, arms up his head, legs separated, and had started whipping him in the balls, thighs and buttocks with one of the riding crops until the man had screamed for more, moaning loudly when she had penetrated him with the leather handle of the crop, squeezing his balls painfully until his member had been fully erected, tying it upwards to his waist with a belt. Then, she had slapped him in the butt, then in the face while she had kept on teasing his asshole, two fingers stretching it so the crop’s handle could fit fully inside. Lucius had come so violently he had stained his chest and beard with semen.

And she had forced his head downwards, ordering him to lick it, which he had complied with enthusiasm while she had plugged inside him the smallest vibrator, securing it with another leather strap, using the belt to sustain both ends as well, earning breathless panting she had rewarded teasing his cock again, working it out to full erection again. Then, she had left him squirming in pleasure alone to face the last remaining man.

Vulpes had eyed her in utter horror when she had chained him to another tent pole, the drug making him gleam with sweat when she had orientated him facing the pole with Lanius’ and the other two men’s general direction, his arms chained around it upwards, his legs separated.

He had sung her name at the third lash of the whip, blood streaming down his already eroded back to his buttocks, where it had mingled with sweat and precum dripping from between his legs.

Ten lashes later, and she had positioned herself behind him, licking his blood and biting his throat, her left hand lazily jerking him off whereas the other slid a finger, then another one inside him, teasing his inner walls while she had made him watch the trio.

Edward had never seen before Vulpes smile so much, a depraved, pupil-dilated look set upon his once unmoving features while he kept on watching, a trail of saliva sliding out one of the corners of his mouth, enjoying the Courier’s ministrations from behind, rubbing against her naked form while purring, as if asking for more. She had bitten his ear cartilage, whispering to him what a good boy he was.

When he came, the arc his cum traced up the air was so great that in ended over the still active trio, earning nervous, maddened giggling from the now completely unrecognizable Fox.

Once she was done with him, locking him in a kiss he responded heatedly when she sucked on his lips and tongue, teasing his nipples as she did so, a thin thread of saliva hung between their lips briefly until she released him, leaving him whimpering like a rejected puppy while she directed her steps to the trio as Antony finished inside Otho and the Arena Master came all over Lanius, whom she allowed release when she took off the constricting metallic bracelet, allowing him a finishing brutal load of cum that ended all over Lucius, whose pole had been conveniently close all the time.

She had kept on a steady routine of abusive/stimulating behavior, switching the men between poles, chains and whips, working them up and holding their respective releases to her convenience, keeping Vulpes and Lucius as her favorites when it came to whipping, sometimes tying them together to the same pole, making them tongue-kiss while she jerked, fingered or lashed them.

But she brought in the worst when she started to make the men abuse each other, most notably when she tied Lanius between two poles with arms and legs wide open, chained the other four around him by their ankles and gave each one of them riding crops, which they used to flog the Legate – under her supervision – on his back, buttocks, chest, belly, thighs, balls and cock while the giant kept on roaring in delight, begging for more.

Unsurprisingly, Vulpes was the most vicious of them all when it came filling the Legate’s lower parts with hematomas, going as far as biting the man on the throat and raking his nails down his chest until he drew blood.

The Courier punished him with five more lashes to add on his already bloodied constellation of a back until he spilled all over himself, eyeing her with an impish, naughty smile she returned when she gave him control over the whip and allowed him to exercise its use over the still fully tied Lanius.

He didn’t attempt even once to use the weapon against her, to Edward’s infinite dismay, as he chastised Lanius’ back, buttocks and legs, making the taller man scream in pleasure whereas Vulpes - with the Courier's permission - masturbated himself while watching the other bleed in joy.

Antony was given full permission to make out, jerk, suck... _punish_... and even penetrate Lucius, to the Praetorian’s great enjoyment, whereas Otho kept performing blowjobs for everyone, swallowing load after load of cum as the Courier had ordered him so. And he did it smiling and moaning all the time.

The pattern went on for hours, none of the men seemed to accuse any kind of refractory period as their members were kept semi or full erected all the time, dehydration and exhaustion came after it was dawning.

And there, spent, bruised, bloodied and higher than Fiends, Edward’s men laid on the floor, incapable of moving. Some still erected, trembling and sweating profusely, but all of them sharing in the drugged happiness the aphrodisiacs, violence and sex had brought onto their addled brains.

Lanius had a Cheshire grin painted all over his scarred face, an indistinguishable mixture of sweat, blood, precum and cum sliding slowly from between his legs, his once hard and brutal body placid, fully relaxed after the exertions he had been submitted to during all the night.

Otho was cuddling with Lucius, both men too spent and too comfortable to even disentangle from one another; shared sweat, blood and cum getting sticky between their relaxed forms.

Antony had been left huddling in a corner like an animal, the dog collar still around his neck as he slept sucking on his thumb in utter contentment.

And Vulpes… Vulpes was eyeing the Courier with pupils so dilated that the blue of his eyes was indiscernible, his gaunt cheeks blooming pink, his countenance taken, utterly enamored as the Courier laid him on the ground delicately, earning giggling the likes of a schoolgirl from the man.

And then, once she was sure none of them could move a finger, she then took her long-discarded syringe and loaded it with the drug cocktail once more, this time aiming for him.

“Well now, _Caesar_.” - she said mockingly, a perverse smile adorning her features – “It’s your turn.” – upon watching him tremble below her hands, dried trails of tears upon his cheeks as his eyes were dry and tired due to the strips of sticking plaster, her smile amplified – “What was the old Biblical saying? _‘Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and unto God the things that are God's’_ , right?” – once the needle found his flesh, she added darkly – “With Graham’s regards.”

And Edward knew, with crystal clear lucidity, that the very instant his veins were overflowed with the drug this was the end of his Empire. His brain tumor won’t survive this ride. At all.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: in Easy Pete's words of wisdom: Yup.


	4. Attention Whore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PLOT: the Courier hates Politics. A lot. The Mojave and its due factions won't quit pestering her to solve their problems and she has had enough. Then, when her hand is forced by her employer and a certain Frumentarius begins popping out of nowhere at the most unsuspecting places to add to the pestering list... she kind of begin doing random things. Because even an anxiety-driven, hysteric Courier can kick some ass whilst having some sweet, sweet release.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair Warning: this is a crack One-Shot and, despite it poses some good questions in a serious tone... it wasn't meant to be serious right from the start. Pretty much like the Old World Blues DLC, that treats crack seriously whilst still managing to come up with random nonsense.
> 
> I had this written like EONS ago, but I thought it to be so bad that I discarded it... but never deleted it. Rereading it I thought "Hey, this is not so bad! It simply needs a couple retouches et voilà!" so, resting between marathoning sessions of studying (sick of it I am, I miss writing so much! T_T), I managed to edit a bit the mess this previously was and ended with this ton of cra(p)ck.
> 
> Maybe I will be releasing crappy Vulpes fics and One-Shots I have already written, just for the sake of it. It doesn't require me to write much, only editing weird/stupid stuff and posting them here if they have porn. If not, free fic for everyone :D

* * *

_“Label given to any person who **craves attention** to such an extent that they will do **anything** to receive it. The type of **attention** ( ~~negative or~~ positive) does ~~not~~ matter.”_

**― Urban Dictionary (slightly modified by Yours Truly ;)**

* * *

When Courier Six of the Mojave Express had met the infamous Caesar’s Legion Head of Intelligence ( _aka_ “those _fruity-something-named_ guys who spied and burned down populations”) for the first time, she had to restrain herself from rolling her eyes as she had to swallow the pretentious, overly wordy, little discourse about _lessons_ , _dissolution_ and _disloyalty_ fanatic crap from the very man’s lips while beholding the smoldering ashes of Nipton.

The man _loved_ to listen to himself.

What an asshole.

She hadn’t held any love for the aforementioned city, though; so she had shrugged noncommittally, accepting to bear his stupid message as Ranger Ghost had been the one sending her in the first place to assess the situation.

End of transmission with assholes wearing a dog’s head with ridiculous football gear painted in red ending in shredded skirts showing muscled sun-kissed legs. _Vale_? _Vale_ , until we NEVER meet again, you stuffy creep.

However, to her much dismay, a second time had ensued. And she had felt annoyed at the guy’s self-important smugness when he had presented to her his version of a ticket of a pleasure cruise to the other side of the Colorado River right into the wolf’s den in the form of a golden medallion bearing his motherfucker of a boss’ face imprinted on it.

What a bunch of assholes.

She had taken the stupid necklace and had turned heel to the Lucky 38 before he could bid her his stupid nerdy fancy Latin word to say _‘Goodbye’_.

The third time, she had been enjoying a nice lunch consisting of spiced medallions of grilled gecko with tatos, soft corn pone and a Sarsaparilla at the Vault 21’s cafeteria.

She had come alone so she could have a moment of peace away from the persistent discrepancies between her six anthropomorphic companions - Rexie and sweet ED-E blessedly excluded as they couldn’t share their opinions on the matter – and to enjoy a cooked meal other than baked pastries made by Lily.

She had been dead wrong to think she would be allowed a moment of peace.

For _He Who Likes To Listen To Himself_ had made a third act of appearance.

“Caesar awaits.” – had been his monotone, rumbling salutation as he had sat at her table without waiting for an invitation to join her; pale fingertips from both hands meeting below his chin. The stupid, oversized brown fedora he had worn on their second encounter outside The Tops still over his brow, giving him an appearance even more ridiculous than when he had been wearing the dog’s head.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” – she had exclaimed, an inch away from spitting a big gulp of her Sarsaparilla right to his poker-face countenance as his sudden appearance had gotten her low-guarded – “Can’t a woman have a nice meal on this country in peace?!”

“Making my Lord impatient will earn you no favors inside the Legion, Courier.” – had been his monochord answer, pronunciation perfect, tone and expression dispassionate and bored.

“And who says that I would want to get involved in whatever _favors_ you Skirt Boys would offer me?” – she had scoffed, stuffing inside her mouth a piece of corn pone with a matter-of-factly expression set upon her features.

However, she had been this close to choke when the guy had given her the weirdest tight-lipped smile ever, leaning slightly over the table.

“Would you like an _example_ , Courier?” – he had asked, dragging sinuously every word, the _‘example’_ one sounding more as a _‘sample’_.

What the fuck was wrong with this guy? What a weirdo.

Picking her metallic tray with one hand and the Sarsaparilla bottle with the other, she had gotten up the table.

“You know what? Forget it.” – she replied, head high and dignified posture – “And, by the way: fuck you, with cream and a fucking cherry on top.”

And, with that, she had taken her lunch to the bar counter so they could put it on takeout for her. She wouldn’t spend yet another minute in that cafeteria breathing the same air as him.

When she reached her Master Bedroom up at the Presidential Suite on the Lucky 38, her food was already cold and her lunch had been officially ruined.

She spent the next couple of days on the Penthouse level when her companions had started sputtering about responsibilities they assumed they could just throw at her face and wait just to see the magic taking effect. All along the lines about helping the Brotherhood of Steel, helping the NCR winning the war against the Legion, working outside House’s line of interest, save the world… take drugs, kill a bear… whatever.

And, while she appreciated that Raul and Lily didn’t dwell in Politics, the supermutant’s incessant sputtering about her other personality, Leo, thinking about killing them all and the ghoul ignoring dispassionately everything around him was making, slowly but surely, the Courier fairly pissy.

And, when at the third day Robert House decided to present himself on the big screen on the Penthouse’s Main Terminal demanding that she should be earning the privilege of living amidst luxury by means of playing Politics as his human agent down there, the Courier resented the man hiding behind a screen, making utterly unavailable the possibility of throttle him.

First, her slavedriver of a boss wanted her as a mediating agent between him and the NCR Embassy, merely a few streets ahead.

That, she complied.

She went alone, solicited an audience with Ambassador Crocker, and went ahead with listening _very_ patiently to the bureaucrat’s almost instant demands as soon as he had gotten sight of her by his doorstep.

“To the Northeast is a settlement, the locals here call them "Boomers." They are sitting on a munitions stockpile that would be invaluable to us.” – the man had explained, completely disregarding her presence there being due to her affiliation to Robert House as being his human representant – “I'd like you to get in contact with them, and then do whatever it takes to convince them to help us.”

Why did people keep giving her tasks instead of asking if she was available? To earn her favor by simply paying attention to what _she_ wanted instead of what _they_ wanted from her? Saying _please_ for once?

To them, she was still a courier, a lowly worker who would acquiesce to any job given as long as caps were involved. Even if said job could get her killed or politically compromised thus, ultimately, _killed_ nonetheless.

Hadn’t she demonstrated that she meant serious business? That she got visceral and _deadly personal_ when her life was on the line?

Hadn’t Benny’s example fleeing from the Strip as soon as he had gotten sight of her – a black eye, a split lip, two molars less and a kick in the balls, plus a few dead bodyguards later just for the sake of making a point – been proof enough to these people that she was an _angry_ mailwoman not to be trifled with?

She had abandoned the Embassy building biting down her tongue so she wouldn’t start proffering obscenities aloud about Dennis Crocker and _where_ he could shove up his condescending amnesty from crimes against the Republic she had never committed in the first place and the puny “perks” he had insinuated were waiting for her should she behaved and acquiesced to his whims.

“Attending social events, Courier?” – a slippery, oily voice she had grown to recognize quite well in the last months insinuated in her ears by her left, grating on her nerves – “Have you finally decided to pick a side in this warring of ours or this was more of a _testing waters_ kind of meeting?”

Inhaling a gulp of air and counting down to ten, she willed herself to calm down and turned to the source of the voice. Leaning against one shady corner of the brick compound, arms crossed over his chest and a gesture of casual nonchalance set over his features was Fruity Guy Number One.

However, this time the stupid oversized fedora was nowhere to be seen and he had taken out the ugly brown jacket, showing instead a tight brown waistcoat that hugged his middle section like a second skin, emphasizing narrow hips and elegant broad shoulders covered by long white sleeves of a pristine shirt that also hugged his arms a bit too tightly, insinuating lean, taut muscles underneath.

He had a very dark brown, neatly stylished in a military crew cut style, shadow of hair obscuring his delicate cranium that ended in a sharp jaw and corded neck muscles that lose themselves underneath the slightly unbuttoned shirt collar.

Was this the same annoying guy popping out of nowhere selling fascist propaganda at the minimum chance? The one who favored the stupidest headgears she had ever had the doubtful pleasure to see?

She gave the surroundings a quick scanning glance, searching for the real guy using this pleasing _décor_ as a front to appeal to her sight. Surely, she had to give the fucker some credit when he had managed to fool her, even if it had been briefly.

However, the pretty _décor_ in front of her squinted, pale blue eyes studying her intently until he opened his mouth.

“Looking for something in particular, _Courier_?” – he asked, emphasizing her title in a way that made the thin hairs on her forearms stand as the slippery voice of _He Who Likes To Listen To Himself_ matched the movement of his thin lips perfectly.

The woman blinked, slightly repelled. Her brain fighting against the notion of matching the oily, haughty voice with such a nice envelope. She simply couldn’t reconcile the two notions.

“I’m trying to discern who’s the cocky and the stupid here.” – she answered, crossing her arms as well as a means of putting something between her and the tempting wrapping so full of crap ahead of her – “Either you, waltzing around in front of the very noses of dozens NCR officers as if they were nothing, perhaps laughing at their dumb blindness… or them, allowing a hungry coyote enter their brahmin pen, knowing he cannot take down a full prey even if he tried to, or not knowing shit about the presence of said coyote in the first place.”

An odd, predatory smile spread slowly on his face. It was unnerving, both because his terse skin and muscles signaled that such a face wasn’t used to smile very often… and because she found the gesture oddly appealing, much more sincere than any warm smile she had seen in better people than him.

“And have you reach a satisfactory conclusion?” – he asked, daring her to deny what both knew to be a truth.

Her nostrils distended.

“Unfortunately, yes.” – she admitted, much to her interlocutor’s great pleasure, if his amplified grin was any indication – “What do you want this time? One would think you’re following me.”

“Oh, but I am.” – he answered simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to say – “I would feel deeply insulted should you thought otherwise.”

The Courier blinked. Even if he evidently fell into the smooth-talker category, he wasn’t sugar-coating the fact that she was being monitored.

 _‘Creepy’_ , at this point, would be an understatement.

“Listen, dude.” – she replied, for she didn’t know the guy’s name, nor that she had the slightest interest in learning it – “I figured you for a smart one who would get that I am, under any circumstance, NOT going to pay a visit to your boss inside hostile territory where women fall under second-class citizens category.” – she huffed, growing frustrated each second her words seemed to fall on deaf ears as her interlocutor didn’t change his nonchalant expression – “However, I’m starting to think that you’re as dense as any ordinary guy a girl says _“no”_ right to his face and still thinks he has her wrapped around his pinky.”

The tight-lipped smile showed a row of perfectly aligned teeth.

“Oh, but I believe you will say _“yes”_ when I…” – at this, he made a dramatic pause, unsticking himself from the concrete wall and started approaching her with deliberate slowness, the same a lone nightstalker would start circling its prey – “… let’s say, _sweeten_ the deal.” – he finished, whispering next to her ear.

Apparently, without her noticing, he had gotten so close that she already could feel heat radiating off his body, a lonely sweat drop descended from his jaw down his corded neck, disappearing under the slightly wet shirt collar.

Shit, she was _staring_ at him sideways, deciding if she should risk angering a genocidal Legion maniac by kicking him in the balls or just let him play his game until he said what he came to say. It was unlikely he would hurt her in front of the Republic’s Embassy to make an example in Caesar’s name, too many soldiers around.

Or that’s what she chose to think in order to keep her cool when she spoke again, willing herself not to turn her face his way.

“Isn’t a bit beneath a man of your rank playing these games with a… how did you call us? Ah, yes, a _Profligate_?” – she said, almost self-sufficiently… until his dilated pupils informed her, to her much chagrin, that such a statement, far from making him recoil in disgust, had _intrigued_ him.

Shit. Why did she have to play his game?

“I do not know what are you talking about.” – he replied in an amused tone that told her that he was well aware of what _exactly_ she was talking about – “Nevertheless, you will find that _very little_ is beneath a Frumentarius when it comes to _achieving results_.”

His lips were so close to her ear that she could feel every breath he drew while speaking along her nerve endings. He wasn’t touching her, but he was twisting up her sensorial perception of him in a way that she almost wished he were.

Almost.

She sighed in frustration.

“You are going to keep pestering me on and on with this, huh?” – she asked, not really expecting an answer. His wolf-like grin was an answer by itself – “Very well, I will humor you with a little bartering: your offer?”

His grin amplified.

“How about… Benny’s head on a platter?” – he whispered. Her suddenly tense posture gave him leverage enough to keep talking – “I have received a recent report from our encampment about the worm attempting to infiltrate our ranks to end ultimately getting caught due to his own stupidity.” – his breath was tickling her neck and ear in a way that she thanked that she wasn’t the type who blushed easily, because the motherfucker was an expert at making you cringe as well as having your rapt attention in equal measurements – “Should I give the order, he will be kept alive… for you to dispose of him in the way you deem best.”

It was undeniably a very tempting offer, as her thirst for revenge hadn’t been fully appeased since the coward Benny had slipped between her fingers for a hair’s breadth.

However, she wasn’t as stupid as to led herself to the slaughterhouse just to pursue justice the Legion, willing or not, would end administrating for her. It was well-known that nobody who hadn’t been previously invited into Caesar’s territory got inside and got away with it.

So, resisting this man’s compelling offer and charms, she turned her head to him, got around his face and planted a soft kiss to his cheek whilst she murmured:

“Nice offer, but I’m still a woman, thus I cannot trust that you Skirt Boys would refrain from enslaving me once I’ve met your boss. So, Blue Eyes, I’m afraid I have but to decline.” – with that, she took a step back, observing how his eyes had gone in mere seconds from astonished to outraged while his lips pressed on a thin line – “Bye.”

With that, she had broken on a brisk trot while biting on an inner mouth wall so she wouldn’t change her apparent facial nonchalance until she got behind closed doors inside the Lucky 38.

Because, once she was sure nobody could see or hear her beyond Victor standing by the distant elevator’s door, she permitted herself to vent out the anxiety attack she had been swallowing all the way back.

Once she sat down the dusty floor and got her head between her legs while trembling uncontrollably, she swore she wasn’t going to walk out the damned casino fortress ever again, war between the NCR and the Legion be damned.

However, as soon as that fantasy had started ringing true inside her head, House had summoned her the following day to inform her that her next task was to accept this agent’s offer and travel to Fortification Hill in order to retrieve the Platinum Chip and put at use her best acting skills to convince Caesar that she’ll convert under the Bull’s banner beliefs.

She had _frenzied_.

The only thing she recalled with clear precision had been herself giving instructions to her companions in an almost robotic manner so everybody got aboard the elevator in two batches armed to the teeth.

House had deployed his robotic forces onto them, even his virtual escort, Jane, once the Courier had stated that she had put up enough with his crap and she wasn’t going to that damnable encampment full of misogynistic, fanatical ex-tribals rapists. She had felt immensely cocooned when all of her companions had seconded the motion.

Then, after that, everything had passed in a surrealistic haze full of bullets, explosions and charred pieces of furniture that had ended scattered across the two levels of the Penthouse.

House had retreated behind cybernetic security… and then, Raul had stepped on and, with a focused determination neither the Courier nor the rest of the group had seen since he had been rescued from Black Mountain, he had stood more than three hours in front of the terminal that unlocked access to House’s Main Control Room until he had managed to hack through the security codes.

She hadn’t known that Raul knew shit about computers, but guess being a two-hundred-year-old man gives you time enough to learn some interesting things beyond being pro at repairing stuff and revolver-shooting.

They had dealt with two more securitrons until they had gotten, quite literally, face to face with the true Robert House: a pre-War abomination of a bedridden man who got physically sustained by a machine inside a stasis chamber.

She had cut his control over the Lucky 38’s Mainframe Computers, but she hadn’t killed him, unwilling as she was at shooting an ill man that was more on the corpse side than among the living.

She had left the Main Control Room followed by way too talkative companions, all praising her move onto disowning House but not committing murder in cold blood.

“The only way to ensure relative safety and independence for the people of New Vegas is to prevent others from taking control of the region.” – had been Arcade’s rather inspiring speech when everything was over – “That means no NCR, no Mr. House, and no Legion.” – everybody had nodded, even Boone… although a bit reluctantly given his past with the Republic – “At the moment, I think I’m not alone when I say that you're on the right track.” – he had finished with a big smile, putting one of his hands over her right shoulder.

Suddenly, all of her humanoid companions now coincided on their unanimous adoration of her. Just that easy.

Whilst she had been looking for their approval, she felt somehow cheated, insulted. How easy was gaining adepts by stepping into Politics? By playing the big game she had been so intent on not playing all these months while traveling the Mojave, wanting nothing more complicated than revenge and get paid for her job.

She hadn’t meant to shoot up the higher echelons this way! She didn’t mean to become the Strip’s next dictator!

But now, after taking yet another trip to The Tops, giving over-flirting Swank a nasty look as she had retraced her steps to the thirteenth floor to get into Benny’s quarters, she had instructed Yes Man to overwrite House’s control over the securitrons and the Lucky 38’s mainframe so, from now on forward, she would be the one calling the shots.

The overly-cheery, creepy as fuck, AI had compelled and had taken its mechanical body outside the building, much to The Tops clientele and workers’ astonishment, to get its mechanical butt to the Lucky 38.

Once again, she had come alone to deal with these stupid matters she had not signed for and, between one thing and another, nighttime had arrived at New Vegas.

The NCR officers off duty were extra drunk puking on every corner and bathing naked at the Ultra-Luxe fountain whereas the whores were extra high at night, so she had chosen to round the buildings from behind in order to avoid being assaulted with offers she hadn’t the mood to entertain.

Bad idea.

“The eyes of the mighty Caesar are _still_ upon you.” – she swore she almost jumped as soon as _his_ voice had reached her like a knife in the dark behind the structure of the Gomorrah, setting every hair on her body on edge – “He appreciates your service in the dawn of Robert House’s death, and renews his invitation for you to come to Fortification Hill, where you shall be treated as an honored guest, still with Benny’s head as an enticement for you to work with us.”

In the middle of the night, sheltered from the lights of the Strip’s neon signs, she almost bumped into him, her waist promptly caught between his hands, steering her form from falling.

She gasped as soon as her sweaty palms met the itchy front of his waistcoat, her head shooting up instinctively to met his hooded blue eyes.

Shit. The motherfucker was handsome, too handsome for harboring such a shitty soul inside that chest of his, hard as steel beneath her now trembling hands.

He should be repulsive and his touch should feel viscous instead of downright _burning_. For she could swear that his hands were boring literal holes through her pants, underwear and skin as they came to rest upon her hipbones.

However, she soon made a mental connection between this guy and a rattlesnake as soon as he lowered his face to align it to hers, his eyes calculating and mesmerizing the same when they searched her frozen countenance.

A strange sensation of electric current transmitted from his scorching palms onto her hips and belly, cascading down to a much lower place she, at the moment, refused to acknowledge for her own mental health.

If she didn’t know it to be physically impossible, she wouldn’t find it beneath him to manipulate her own body temperature in order to get her more flustered than she already was.

But his thin lips unfurled in a knowing smile as he brought the tip of his nose against hers, tracing slight, ghostly patterns from cheek to cheek as he inhaled on her skin, long dark lashes fluttering in a strange mix of a predatory, coquettish gaze, so intense she feared them pupils would melt holes into her skull.

“I do wonder…” – he whispered, his hot breath betraying something fruity, unbelievably fragrant and sweet against her rosy cheeks and beating lips – “What would it take to _convince_ you to render onto Caesar?” – he asked playfully, clearly toying with her treacherous bodily reactions to his nearness – “What else should I _offer_ to you in exchange of your… _indisputable collaboration_ , hmmm?”

She attempted to use her hands as leverage to pry him off her, but his form, nor his incinerating hands, would not budge. Not an inch.

She was frantically raking her brains for a way to escape from this blue-eyed devil tempter when a sudden commotion, luckily, broke the spell long enough for her to extricate herself from his grasp and break into a mad dash to the Lucky 38's entrance, disregarding the printed paper sheets that the securitrons were vomiting from their upper frames, bearing Robert House’s last words of parting upon his death.

She had never been so grateful for the corpse of a pre-War man having been a self-centered prick.

After such an intense encounter, she had locked herself on the Penthouse level surrounded by canned food, medicines, books, magazines, soap and toilet paper to last minimum for the next ten years.

As days passed, she started to ignore the calls of her companions downstairs when they got on the very same old track along the lines of saving the world. A week later, she only allowed Lily and Raul to enter the Penthouse, the first always bringing a fragrant batch of homemade pastries, the second being the indifferent, neutral-aligned informant she needed to know how the situation outside fared.

Rex and ED-E were the only exceptions allowed to live with her… besides Yes Man. Though the company of the latter was almost always immediately shunned as soon as the AI would bring up the “seizing control of New Vegas” topic.

 _“I do not understand.”_ – the AI would try to reason with her – _“If your idea is not ruling New Vegas in House’s absence, why not acquire the Platinum Chip in order to help achieve victory to the other two major factions? Not that I am telling you what to do!”_

But she would reply with the same answer always.

“Because!” – she would exclaim for the umpteenth time – “I’m no leader, I’m no politician and I’m no soldier for nobody! They want to play war? Fine by me as long as they leave me out of their grand schemes! I don’t want to play their game and that’s my last word!”

_“But… do you realize that, by remaining in here, you will automatically be positioned in-between crossfire, right?”_

“My last word, I say!”

_“Alrighty then!”_

She knew the AI had a point, and she really should start packing stuff and warning the others to save their arses before the real fun began. Her plan was to cut her hair, dye it, don a scarf and travel to the West where nobody knew her. Maybe purchase a nice ranch with her savings, Heck Gunderson still owed her for saving his stupid boy from being served as the main course on the Ultra-Luxe, maybe he could help her start a business. Legion or not upon the Mojave, the Republic was still strong enough on their turf to resist any sort of invasion. Screw the Mojave. Who the fuck wanted a piece of desert full of dangerous critters, rural populations and a single city dedicated in its entirety to sin and vice…?

God, she was starting to sound like Fruity Guy with the blue eyes…

… Which, if she had to concede to her inopportune brain, was a more appealing thought than starting to form a strategy about how to pass through the Mojave Outpost with all her stuff and with ED-E and Rexie in tow without being recognized upon her arrival.

Allowing herself to sink in the memories of their atrocious encounters, she couldn’t help but giggle a bit. At those moments, she had felt like running all the time, but reminiscing them with some perspective she realized she recalled them with a certain degree of fondness: starting comical in a creepy way and then evolving to thrilling, almost-sensual, enough to be the protagonists of a cheap naughty novel.

 _“He came from the Legion”._ That’s how she would title such an affront in the form of trashy literature. And she had read quite a handful of these stories between the pages of her endless collection of _“Live & Love”_ magazine issues. Even _“Tales of Chivalry”_ had a few Medieval-setting raunchy short stories to answer for.

Having a good laugh after so many days with nerve-wracking worries and insomnia getting the best of her due to her inability to abandon the Lucky 38 without feeling like a bunny amidst coyotes, she felt herself relaxing, stretching languorously over her queen-sized bed, naked feet and legs indulging in the softness of her fresh sheets, her hand trailing down her shorts until she caught herself, the unconsciousness of the action giving her some pause.

She really shouldn’t… and even less giving the nature of her steamy thoughts.

But, on the other hand, she needed some release from the last weeks fearing even her own shadow each time she went to the Penthouse kitchen area to treat herself with tea and Fancy Lads Snack Cakes.

Despite her usual sweet tooth, sometimes she couldn’t even stomach more than a sandwich, a coffee and a small snack a day before spiraling back into anxiety. And let’s not start with her recurrent insomnia episodes. Those responsibilities she had not asked for were taking a toll so brutal on her system that she needed to purge herself from it.

So, why not? A fantasy was still a fantasy. It couldn’t hurt anybody, right?

Biting her lower lip nervously, chasing away the last remnants of shame, she allowed her impatient fingers to undo the solitary button of her shorts, allowing the old zipper to slide downwards as her fingers pried under her panties.

Since the shot-in-the-head incident, she had very little time to dedicate to her own pleasure and she shivered slightly at how cold her fingertips felt in contrast with her heated lower belly, caressing slow trails downwards until they met with the beginning of her soft curls.

She allowed herself a few instants of idle navigation around, brushing slightly moistened thighs until her mid finger eventually found the soft mound of hairless flesh that marked the beginning of warm, sensitive petals.

Probing with her finger a little, just to dip it into tepid lubrication, she extended it up and down, careful to coat the entire perimeter of her sex with it, enjoying the laziness of the action itself, willing her nerves to feel the wonderful contrast between temperatures, her touch becoming easier and slicker, making the action smoother and pleasurable.

Then, as soon as she closed her eyes, she put her imagination at work by placing slender, long pale fingers over her increasingly burning skin instead of hers.

Such elegant digits, if she had to guess, were meant for dexterous movements. Calmed and precise, just as the serpentine voice of their owner.

As she traced slow circles around her receptive bundle of nerves, already beating with anticipation, she imagined he would be the teasing type, taking his time to work her up to withdraw his attentions as soon as she would be building up her own release. The type who would enjoy making her squirm, just the same he did verbally.

She didn’t think that using pleasure as a weapon would be above him, after all.

“Quite an… _enticing_ event finding you in such an indulgent, vulnerable position, Courier Six.”

At first, she was marveled at how precise her imagination could get when she wanted… until a tiny part of her lust-addled brain started to ring red alarms almost immediately, screaming her to open her eyes.

So she did.

And the image that welcomed her froze her tender ministrations as well as it filled her with sudden dread.

There he was, the protagonist of her lately heated fantasies, a man whose presentation card had been rows of crucified Powder Gangers both sides of Nipton main avenue, a city that would never recover from the thorough purge this man had subjected it to.

A man who was the Spy Master of a fanatical fascist organization.

A man who had been stalking her. A man who, clearly, didn’t accept a “no” for an answer.

Sharp-dressed in his brown suit, she noticed the few specs of dust his jacket and knees had collected and she rose her eyes to the ceiling where an opened grill yawned onto the room: the ventilation tunnels, that’s how he had gotten inside her fortress.

She hadn’t even heard him land on her carpet.

His cold eyes brightened as soon as he saw her own displacing to the ceiling, connecting dots inside her head.

Retiring her hand from her pants in the most dignifying manner she could muster given the circumstances, she inhaled deeply and raised both her hands.

“Okay, I give up. You win.” – she spoke calmly, more calmly than she truly felt, but she couldn’t allow herself to break into hysterics right now. Legion loathed weakness, after all; she better acknowledged her defeat with some dignity so this guy wouldn’t resort to slitting her throat if he detected weakness in her.

However, she resented him endlessly when the bastard smiled down her thinly, crossing his arms.

“Oh, do I?” – he asked, clearly amused by her previous statement – “And what, pray tell, shall you offer me as a _prize_ for my… victory?”

Wait, what?

“Um…” – she hesitated, raking her brain for an answer that could be interpreted as liberally as his previous question. She didn’t know what game they were playing, but she wanted to get out of this one alive – “What would you like?” – barter. She better attempted to negotiate a deal with the guy if there was the slightest opportunity to get away with her cowardice as unscathed as possible.

Nonetheless, his thin smile widened, almost maniacally, and his eyes burned with something that would have sent her away screeching in fear… if it wasn’t because said fear, at the moment, got her rooted on spot when he planted a knee on her mattress, right between her legs, followed by his hands at each side of her hips.

Looming over her like a curse, she couldn’t stop thinking about the rumors she had heard among NCR troopers that spoke about the many torture methods the Legion applied to their war prisoners - most of them crude enough to send one’s lunch back up the esophagus – wondering what this very handsome, very devious man had in mind for her.

So, she closed her eyes and braced herself for whatever pain was going to come eventually over her when… unexpectedly, she was drawn into the most searing, mind-blowing kiss anyone had given to her before.

Opening her eyes in wide surprise, she met his very blue intoxicating stare above hers with pupils the likes of a drug-addict.

Her hands somehow found his shirt lapels to draw him closer while his arms trapped her with the same avidness his lips assaulted hers, suckling and biting softly, making her head swim, until his burning tongue pried off further resistance to meet hers halfway now opened mouths and parted teeth.

Her right leg ended tangled with his left meanwhile her fingers trailed up his neck to end at his scalp, his cropped hair incredibly soft beneath her fingertips.

When they parted briefly after running out of air, she eyed him through half-lidded lashes totally dazed, still a bit surprised but suddenly understanding many things regarding their prior encounters… while still not quite believing her incredibly stupid luck.

He was returning her stare intensely, silently searching for something on her face that would give away her thoughts on this. His nose and lips ghosting disquietly over her jaw and lips, not quite touching but sending his hot breath onto her sensitive skin.

She decided not to leave him with the intrigue.

“Okay.” – she voiced hoarsely, joining her lips with his once more, earning a pleased purr out of him.

Still not entirely believing what was happening, her movements took on an urgent pace when she attempted to shed off his jacket, fearing this wonderful fantasy of hers would vanish in thin air, when she felt those long fingers of his circling around her wrists, gently prying her impatient fingers, thumbs drawing soothing circles on the heels of her hands.

“Oh, no, no, no.” – he admonished her softly, his soft lips tickling her earlobe before starting nipping at it as he alternated the action with speaking with that hypnotic voice of his – “ _Impatience_ does not render optimal results in any case given.” – he whispered, setting her cheeks afire, her heart rate knocking against her ribcage so furiously she feared she would end vomiting it. A long, tortuously slow pass of his tongue over the cartilage of her outer earshell and she was becoming a puddle of happy, nervous arousal inside her own underwear – “ _Thoroughness_ , on the other hand…”

Bastard, she knew he would be a goddamn _tease_.

However, she ended not minding that much as soon as his hands started working wonders all over her body, caressing, pinching, massaging, pushing, eliciting the smallest of whimpers each time he found a sensitive spot he would exploit over and over until he would obtain way more vocal responses out of her.

Meanwhile, his teeth had found a playground full of possibilities tracing back and forth roads from her ears, passing by her jaw, back to her lips, then descending with that maddening slowness down her throat and collarbone upon her breasts, where the spaghetti straps of her thin shirt had been, first one, then the other, pulled free off her shoulders, making the stripping action yet another deliciously torturing experience.

Whenever he would leave small biting marks, the slippery trail of his tongue and ardent lips would follow immediately in apology, soothing the hiss of his sting weaving visible patterns al over her skin. If she had compared him before with a rattlesnake, now she was sure just how those sharp fangs of his were inoculating her with his venom in small doses to keep her complacent, yet on edge. He was a chaser for attention and she had to admit that hers were currently undivided; her incredulous joy laced with her nerves and the overstimulation he was subjecting her to doing wonders at making her temporarily forget just how dangerous and obsessive this man truly was.

Red dusk lights poured from the glass panels that composed the circular structure of the Penthouse, blinding her when she attempted to sneak a peek down, where his kisses were currently guiding her sensations lower and lower.

She threw an arm over her eyes, using it both to block the dying sun rays and as a visor to allow her to watch him as he worked his magic.

His fingers hooked around her crumpled shirt, now in line with the waist of her open shorts, and dragged it down along the aforementioned shorts and underwear, rendering her completely naked and bathed in the red light for him to behold.

His eyes, sunken in the hollow of his skull sockets, held a strange magnetic quality that rendered her completely breathless as he knelt between her legs, inclined over her and captured her wrists once again, pulling her weight with him until they were sitting face to face, locking her hands behind his neck, aiding her hips to straddle him, her buttocks slightly resenting the itchy fabric of his suit.

She kissed him hungrily, her hands trailing a path down his cranium to his neck until they got a grasp of the irritating jacket while his own hands traced a very different road, pressing thumbs up and down both sides of her spine.

She coaxed the garment out of him slowly, her nervousness decreasing as her tact perceived the hard muscles beneath clothing, inciting her to undo his bolo tie and open a few buttons on his white shirt, attacking his throat with vicious kisses.

She felt the vibration of his small laugh on her lips as he adopted a more comfortable sitting position, spreading her astride legs further, allowing him unhindered access to her pulsating sex.

Whilst she coaxed open the buttons of his tight vest while not losing touch of his deliciously tense jaw with her lips, the flat of his right hand landed on her stomach and traveled down as he massaged her scalp with the other.

He had but barely grazed the nerve bundle of happiness when she almost jumped, soaked and overstimulated as she was, holding him tightly, her nose nuzzling the crook of his neck, her bare breasts pressed against his flat chest.

He nuzzled her as well, the hand on her hair pulling back gently to allow him access to her throat, the other, meanwhile, teased her nub lightly, drawing a tortuous – but totally expected – circling pattern around her center. Not quite avoiding it, not quite touching it.

Two digits found her tender nub and, instead of rubbing it, they… pinched it.

So slightly, so delicately she laughed a nervous laugh that quickly turned out a moan when he stimulated the area with just the right amount of pressure.

When he introduced the first digit inside her, she was already singing like a nightingale, her hands having found their merry way under his shirt and now palpating the hard, muscled planes of his chest and abs.

He was beautifully crafted, not a single gram of fat in his entire body, not a single surface tender and putty - unlike her – all of him slender but worked, strips of hard muscle, sinew and sharp bones composing his entire anatomy, blue trails of delicate veins crossing his inner wrists, throat and wide temples.

He was way paler than her, much like a fresh-emerged Vaultie, as if wearing skirts and short sleeves while committing atrocities throughout the Mojave Desert didn’t affect his complexion in the slightest.

Later, when another finger was slowly added to her whimpering sex, her now trembling hands had unearthed partially his back and shoulders, crossed by silvery scars she started to lick, one by one, until she felt him shiver under her insistent tongue and lips.

As well as he enjoyed biting, he relished in her soft nipping, removing his fingers momentarily so she could peel off the remnants of his upper clothing. To her endless delight, his hand perused her once more, rekindling what he had left in the middle, his other hand digging fingers into many muscle knots all along her back and shoulders, making her purr in both pleasure and relief.

He was being incredibly delicate with her, so she answered in kind being gentle in her kissing ministrations while her hands wandered downwards until she managed to undo one button of his trousers.

But he surprised her again by retiring his fingers, making her whimper with the loss of stimulation… until he lied her down again and kissed his way down to her inner thighs, nuzzling one at once, then to her labia, making her cry in joy when he didn’t stop there and his tongue gave the first pass.

She wasn’t aware that legionaries, who held women in little to zero regard, condoned these kinds of… practices. Not that she was complaining, though. If this legionary wanted to lick her to an orgasm, she wasn’t going to be the one to stop him.

In fact… oh, my god… she didn’t want him to stop _ever_. He was _insanely good_ at it, not like a few guys she could remember that they hadn’t even known what a clitoris was and even less how to deal with it. They only knew how to put sticks in holes and that was all. Lubrication? Underrated.

Her legionary, at least, had studied his anatomy lessons.

Which reminded her – although very briefly as the building, beating heat between her legs was becoming too much to keep a single thought _moderately coherent_ inside her head for more than _ten seconds_ – that she was allowing a legionary to have his way with her and she wasn’t even thinking of resisting a little bit just for the sake of principles and stuff.

If Boone, Arcade or even Veronica saw her now, the two men would attempt to disjoin her from her temeritous lover, one chastising her life choices and the other pointing his gun to the offender… then, quite possibly, to her as well.

Veronica would… not understand it at all – less the un-legionary sex practice he was doting her with, as the Scribe swore with her hand over the fire that legionaries only mounted other legionaries – and ask why the Hell would she fuck a _psychopath_.

Maybe Cass would be the only one understanding enough… until the steamy session was over. Then she would ask her why she didn’t kill him.

Or maybe she would ask if _three_ were a crowd to them. With Cass, one couldn’t be really sure.

Raul would shrug the whole thing off whilst Lily… would tell them to play fair and square.

Which he wasn’t at all. Despite him being the one situated in the lower plane, he had the situation – and her – under absolute control.

He triggered her to orgasm when he had her pleading him to do so. The bastard liked to be implored, begged. To be told that she needed him, that she wanted him so badly _she was going to strangle him if he didn’t come up here again to kiss her senseless and take those stupid trousers off at once or she would rip them off him._

He complied with the kissing part, but he wasn’t taking his pants off – mostly for the sake of annoying her, it seemed - so she ended riding him astride, hands pinning his shoulders down each time he would tease her with a malevolent smile, half-threatening her with getting up again if she didn’t make more haste on relieving him of his remaining clothing.

“Would you… please stay the _fuck down_ until I’m done with this?” – she asked, mildly exasperated as he kept on teasing her, first making joking attempts at getting up despite him sporting now a huge crotch tent she couldn’t quite to figure out how to free it if he kept on being a nuisance, now taking her hands and putting them elsewhere, endangering her equilibrium over him – “Damn it! Stop it!”

To her much dismay, she found that he was biting down his lower lip to repress snickering that was translating into faint snorting, his blue eyes glassy and his pale face pink as he contained his amusement.

Was he trolling her?

He persisted on his annoying behavior until she got really pissed, ready to get up the bed and abandon him to his absurd devices… until he grabbed her, secured her wriggling, angry form between his arms and… started tickling her.

“NOOOOO!” – she howled amidst scandalous laughing, struggling helplessly on his lap as he was stronger than her, keeping her effectively on the very spot where he wanted her – “WAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! STOP IT, STOP IT, YOU BASTARD, UAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” – she squealed, tears of pure laugh cascading down both her cheeks as uncontrollably as her lower belly was still literally _dripping_ in post-orgasm excitation – “YOU’LL PAY FOR THIS, WEHEHEHEHEHE!!”

The asshole was, slowly but surely, losing composure, giggling softly as he watched her squirm, his terse face blushing with merriment, muscles unused to laugh often now working at full capacity.

Damn, but did he looked even more handsome when he laughed.

When he had turned her into a quivering mess, he kissed her again, the combination of hysterical laughing laced with excitation was incredibly intoxicating, rendering every nerve ending on edge, making her impossibly sensitive, every light touch threatening to overwhelm her, her limbs not quite finding a full grasp on his shoulders when he put her for third consecutive time on her back and, after getting rid of his remaining clothing, that sinful mouth of his kissed her slowly and sensuously while he entered her, making her see fireworks. Her inner walls spasming deliciously around his member.

The weight of his naked, wiry form atop hers was thrilling, the heat of his kisses was making her lose any sense of direction and his thrusting tempo emptied her head completely, rendering her a panting, moaning, trembling mess that soon reached her peak for a second time in a wave of bliss so intense she thought the dying sun rays filtering through the crystal panels were her last thoughts going straight to Hell, sinking in the growing violet darkness hiding their coupling of prying eyes, mantling their strange affair in anonymity.

She held him even when he took on a more violent pace, riding his own pleasure between her afterglow spasms, sinking nails onto her mattress and fangs on her skin.  
Her nails found the eroded flesh of his back and he, finally, gave in with a relieving hiss, like a good snake.

Already finished - his hard, slender form trembling and soaked in sweat against hers - she feared the instant he would retire from her and everything they had shared at dusk would dissolve in thin air as soon as the dark finished settling upon the desert.

He _did_ retire from her and rolled aside… but the very instant her weak limbs followed him in an attempt to capture him again, he was faster and – to her much astonishment - captured her instead.

They remained embraced and naked, not daring to utter a word since it was bound to ruin the moment.

She didn’t know what to think or what to _feel_ when her pulse detected his’ under her palms, his arms and legs carelessly tangled with hers, his sweat mingling with hers, his burning seed sliding between her thighs and his breath relaxing over her forehead.

He smelled good, his embrace felt good… couldn’t they remain just like this without talking for the rest of the night? Please?

In the desert, you’ve got twelve hours of indecent searing sunlight as well as twelve hours of freezing darkness. Twelve hours cuddling and sleeping should be enough for her to wrap her head around the idea that she did not just have fucked a legionary, a theoretical enemy of everything related to living free without a mad dictator telling you otherwise, but a dangerous stalking motherfucker that wiped out entire populations just because they liked _whoring_ and _gambling_.

Which… if she was totally honest with herself, felt like pure hypocrisy given what they had just done.

Both had gambled with the other until they had gotten what, apparently, they had wanted right from the very start. And, to her knowledge, at least one of them didn’t know the name of the other.

This was madness.

“Sleep.” – she heard his voice whispering against her hair – “We’ll talk about this in the morning.”

And she thanked again her stupid luck for giving her a lover she could agree with.

At least… as far as one could agree with someone when it comes to discussing opposite ideologies with a warm cup full of coffee and a rested mind instead of post-coital daze that, should he had wanted to, he could very well have turned against her until she would have agreed to even sell her very soul.

* * *

They _did_ talk in the morning. With coffee and a load of handmade pancakes she hadn’t know where they have come from until he explained to her that her supermutant ally had knocked first hour in the morning and had handled them to him… after calling him _‘Jimmy’_ and giving him a bear hug that had almost squeezed his inner organs out of his ribcage, saying to _‘give grandma some sugar first’_.

She had apologized vehemently to him upon seeing the hematomas around his arms and shoulders, but he had dismissed her concerns, telling her he knew that the Nightkin were insane and that he actually felt lucky to have found an amorous one instead of a blood-lusting monster.

She then had decided to shut her trap about Lily’s dual personality disorder. It was best that way. Wouldn’t want to scare him off.

Didn’t she? Because… it would solve a lot of problems, actually. Like… what was she going to do with a legionary here, inside the Lucky 38, lounging around the Penthouse like he owned the place, scratching Rexie between his ears, earning adoringly lapping.

“This is a Legion dog.” – he observed, pointing with his eyes the faded red bull painted on Rexie’s left side, taking a sip of coffee before adding – “Where did you find him?”

“Was the King’s.” – she replied, grateful to have some innocuous conversation prior to the true matter at hand. Namely that she didn’t want to join the Legion… but she wanted him to stay with her here, isolated from the stupid Mojave Wasteland with its stupid political intrigues, fucking her senseless until she forgot her responsibilities… again. If they rationed her load of supplies, they could hole up here together for… six, seven years? Please? – “He said he bought Rex from a salvager and got the Followers to fix him up. He was ill, I volunteered to help with the issue and… he sorts of landed on my lap.” – holding up some dried meat to catch the canine’s attention, she added – “He’s good now. He’s very dear to me.” – she hoped he got the hint that, Legion or not, Rexie was staying with her.

Her legionary didn’t comment on that, instead eyeing her with fingers crossed under his chin as she took a healthy bite out of her tender pancake.

She got nervous at her fourth bite when she noticed he hadn’t even blinked a single time.

After yesterday’s display, she had conveniently forgotten just how creepy this dude could be.

“This is incredibly weird, you know.” – she said after gathering the strength to express her thoughts in an ordered, un-squeaky manner – “I don’t know what are you playing at _exactly_ , but I’m still wondering why did I swallow the bait just that easily while not even knowing what your name is in the first place.”

She hated herself when his wolfish smile gave her the most pleasant shudders that were quickly dissipated once he opened his oily trap.

“Oh, Courier.” – he purred – “As if you weren’t familiarized with the game of Politics at this point…”

That statement. That single _motherfucking_ statement made her wish she hadn’t manicured her hands the other day, so she could gouge his eyes out of his skull sockets.

“Politics.” – she repeated very slowly, noticing the venom that was sipping in-between syllables – “Is it, then. _Politics_.” - she hissed, barely noticing how she had gotten up from the breakfast table, the building violence inside her head escalating dizzily fast – “Get out of my fucking casino.” – she added, her hand pointing rigidly the elevator – “Now.”

He had gotten up from the table as well, eyeing her with a calculating, suddenly cold blue gaze.

“I am afraid I can’t.” – he replied composedly.

“Get. Out.” – she barked, emphasizing every syllable, her pointing hand trembling with rage – “Now.”

“I am not abandoning this place until you acquiesce to collaborate with us.”

“I SAID NOW!”

“When you say _‘yes’_ , Courier.”

“GET OUT!”

“No.”

Everything went too quickly, but last thing she recalled was launching herself over the table like a panther, effectively tackling him – chair and all – to the floor.

Then, all got a surreal red tonality with her punching him and her voice screaming in the background something along the lines of _“Talk Politics to me, bitch”_ until, somehow, the violent exchange got them again naked and fucking viciously all around the two-storied complex, with him goading and provoking her between refractory periods and her rising to the bait again and again. Less-than-adorable names were exchanged between them two and lots of scratches, bites and hickeys after, and she was still half-expecting he would yield whereas, unbeknownst to her, he expected just the very same from her.

They never reached an agreement throughout that day.

Or the next. Or the incoming weeks where they spend most of the hours they were awake either fucking, eating, washing, or discussing diametrically different ideologies that were, no matter their respective unyielding stubbornness, impossible to reconcile.

He would describe to her the values of a society she wanted nothing to do with and she would throw them to his face, bringing up facts she had picked from time to time from Arcade’s constant philosophical ramblings, ridiculing the inconsistent Hegelian discourse his Lord had taught every single legionary since the Legion was formed thirty-five years ago.

He would call her an “uncouth, barbarian, wretched Profligate”, and she would call him an “ignorant, brain-washed Fruity Guy”.

Then, they would simply fuck. Sometimes with the _“cream and a cherry on top”_ the Courier herself had brought up that time at the Vault 21’s cafeteria. And let’s be perfectly frank here: you cannot remain angry at someone after licking sweet cream off him (or him licking it off from you, whatever the case) whilst making up for all those times you’ve felt sexually frustrated with this ridiculously handsome, crypto-fascist guy giving it to you until you sing Mozart’s “Queen of the Night” aria better than Maria Callas herself.

They weren’t gonna agree ideologically speaking, but they can still fuck.

Amidst these dynamics, war called to Vegas’ door when Legate Lanius, Monster of the East, returned from his campaign in Arizona and planned a counteroffensive against the NCR, whose troops had increased in number to resist the assault at Hoover Dam.

Since Caesar, due to health complications, had fallen asleep into a comma and the Master Frumentarius’ absence in his neverending – and rather _enticing_ – campaign trying to lure the Courier’s support to their cause; Lanius’ plan, if strategically well-executed, wasn’t as refined as any other plan the two aforementioned men could have concocted, so he managed to conquer the Dam in the name of his Lord… at the cost of his own life surrounded by Cassandra Moore’s remaining Ranger forces before the Legion’s red banner undulated tall and proud at the highest peak of Hoover Dam.

Being the last Commander left in charge of the situation, Lucius marched the Legion onto Vegas, capturing several surgeons at the Old Mormon Fort in the hopes they could cure his Lord’s malady.

And so, a week later, Caesar awoke already installed in one of the most comfortable beds he had ever sleep on.

“Lucius…” – he spoke after his tired, reddened eyes found the first familiar face guarding his bedside – “Have we…?”

“Vegas is ours, my Lord Caesar.” – the Praetorian nodded proudly – “Lanius fought valiantly at Hoover Dam and rose our flag before falling prey to the Rangers.”

Caesar nodded silently, being helped as he was by several slaves to sit against pillowy, perfumed cushions to address his Commander properly.

“Where is Vulpes?” – he asked after receiving the report on how their forces had swarmed across the Mojave Desert and were now dealing with minor problems such as the Fiends at Vault 3, the Powder Gangers at the NCR Correctional Facility and the Khans, who had rebelled after witnessing how their women were collared.

Lucius then had paled significantly, then his dark eyes had wandered, as if deciding whether he should be delivering certain news to his still bedridden Lord.

“H-he’s…” – Caesar frowned upon witnessing how his most fearsome Praetorian stuttered minimally – “… still negotiating with the Courier.”

Caesar first asked him if that was a fucking joke, then asked what the fuck was that supposed to mean.

“Aren’t we done with putting up with that bitch’s whims?” – he asked, eyeing his surroundings suspiciously, taking in all the splendor and baroque, decadent luxury in which his quarters were decorated, noticing the faint musical thread caressing his auditive sense with what he identified to be Bach’s Brandenburg Concert nº3 – “Aren’t we inside the Lucky 38?” – watching the Praetorian hyperventilating, a nasty suspicion began forming in the back of his mind – “Lucius?”

It turned out to be that the current casino in which the Commander Praetorian had deemed best to install his Lord had been the one those cannibals from the White Glove Society had cheated their clients with their posh pantomime. All of them except the chef conveniently dispatched, though Caesar didn’t want anything that man would prepare for him. Just in case.

All of this because the Lucky 38 was tightly-shut with bulletproof metallic walls to guard the entrance. And every single Frumentarius they had sent to brave the ventilation tunnels had been returned in pieces. Without any ammo, weapons, or supplies they happened to bring with them.

Not even their repaired howitzer could best RobCo’s expensive pre-War manufacture.

Despite Lucius’ insistent pleas, Caesar had ordered to be brought at the gates of the sealed casino as soon as he could walk.

He was almost shot by a hidden sniper on the twentieth floor that had yelled _“Thumbs down, you son of a bitch!”_ before keeping taking shots at his Praetorian guards, who had shielded him from the attack, resulting in two casualties.

Once they had gotten far enough from the sniper’s reach, after yelling someone brought him a _goddamned megaphone_ to address the impudent insects biding their time inside the unsurmountable fortress, he had used the device yelling, earning that some of his Praetorians covered their ears.

“COURIER SIX!” – he boomed, his face scarlet red, his left eye processing regular intervals of a nervous tick – “I, CAESAR, SON OF MARS AND LEADER OF THE LEGION, DEMAND THAT YOU RELEASE VULPES INCULTA AND HAND YOURSELF AND YOUR ALLIES OVER PEACEFULLY LEAST YOU WANT THAT FUCKING CASINO SURROUNDED BY DYNAMITE TO ITS VERY FOUNDATIONS!”

After that, a static noise had started to play until it had quickly evolved into a high-pitched piping that got every single human currently witnessing the lamentable show their new Lord was offering for free covering their ears in pain.

 _“CAESAR!”_ – a feminine, distorted voice addressed then the street from an indeterminate point above – _“I, SIX, FORMERLY COURIER OF THE MOJAVE EXPRESS AND SELF-PROCLAIMED MISTRESS OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TOWER THAT’S WAAAY TALLER THAN YOURS, COMMUNICATE THAT I’M NOT GONNA HAND MYSELF OR ANY OF MY ALLIES OVER; THAT I HAVE SUPPLIES ENOUGH TO LAST HERE INSIDE FOR A WHOLE CENTURY; AND THAT I’M NOT RETURNING YOU YOUR FRUITY GUY THAT, BY THE WAY, I’VE BEEN AND I WILL CONTINUE TO FUCK RELENTLESS AND SHAMELESSLY UNTIL HE EITHER COMPLIES OR HE THROWS HIMSELF OFF A FUCKING WINDOW!!! WHATEVER SUITS HIM BE…!!!”_

A scratching noise ensued, as if someone were struggling for the microphone with which she was radioing.

 _“BY THE GODS, WOMAN. TURN THAT THING OFF!!!”_ – came up the very discernible voice of a very pissed Vulpes.

Caesar had almost a heart attack whereas Lucius limited himself to cover his face with his hands. As if the first time that he had tried to reason with the madwoman hadn’t been sufficiently embarrassing, now his Lord was putting up a show in the middle of the street. Even some of the crucified NCR soldiers that could still move were snickering.

Face full of nervous ticks and one of his nostrils worryingly bleeding, Caesar dictated that the Lucky 38 _must_ be demolished.

_“In the next months, many attempts to demolish the Lucky 38, some more ambitious than others, ended quickly repelled by the automated defense system that a creepy smiling interface would activate upon any movement were detected in a two-hundred feet radius from the building.  
_ _Enraged by the lack of results and obsessed with this new challenge, Caesar’s rule began to falter when the population in and around New Vegas started a revolt when the dictator’s forces weren’t properly commanded to deal with regional matters to secure the land and, instead, the man forced all of his strategists to deal with the Courier’s opposition at the Lucky 38. Vegas didn’t last much longer on the Legion’s grasp as the old dictator, amidst one of his temper tantrums, pushed his health to its limits and died out of cerebral embolism while sputtering angry nonsense.  
_ _He died a quick, undignifying death.”_

_“Psychologically drained and unwilling to lead an already crumbling Legion, Lucius abandoned Vegas followed by many others back to Flagstaff to reencounter with their families, whom they had been missing dearly since the stupid Mojave Campaign started already six years ago, returning gradually to their tribal lifestyle and actually feeling genuinely happy for it.”_

_“The NCR claimed both the Dam and New Vegas quite effortlessly and even extended yet another amnesty to the Courier, who simply limited herself to turn on the volume of her radio when she was at it with whom she now dubbed fondly ‘her Fruity Guy’.”_

_“Eventually, the majority of the Courier’s companions abandoned the Lucky 38 to go on with their lives, paying visits to the self-proclaimed Mistress of the Tower from time to time, reminiscing good old times and having a laugh or two recalling Caesar’s demise.”_

_“The Courier, filthy rich enough to pay for delivery services and the Republic’s taxes on electricity, kept consistently flipping the bird to the dignitaries the NCR kept on pestering her with to deal with their bureaucratic, regional and, above all else, POLITICAL shit until the Republic, finally, picked on her posture and left her alone. She remained living the good life inside her fortress with all the luxuries and commodities money and technology could provide her with and simply allowed entrance to people she deemed worthy and the others simply were dealt with Yes Man’s blacklist.”_

_“And regarding Vulpes Inculta… a tribal, a spy, and a self-important, charming prick above all else, he remained (and didn’t fight it at all) trapped inside the Courier’s fortress… with the Courier, her cantankerous ghoul repairman, her Schizophrenic Nightkin grandma and her cybernetic pets to keep him company. He didn’t led a bad life despite being a perpetual prisoner… though, he had to admit, when there’s potable clean water, radless food, air conditioner, feathered beds, a gym, a library, a jacuzzi and pretty much everything he could have ever desired, he sometimes felt that he would rather live in such a gilded cage than enduring the hard legionary life he had been leading since he could remember. Ten lashes, tasteless food, extra unpaid working hours, and a general lack of humor and rewarding sex tend to do that for you. Just saying.  
_ _He considered himself a lucky bastard even when his Courier would taunt him with his now obsolete beliefs, even more since, out of pure boredom, both began reading Plato, Aristotle, Marcus Aurelius (a reasonable Roman, take that, Fruity Guy), Kant, Milton and Nietzsche among many others, and kept on throwing nerdy, philosophical jabs at one another before fucking._

_For war… even if it is just for the heck of it… war never changes.”_

* * *

**_THE END_ **

* * *

**▁ ▂ ▄ ▅ ▆ ▇ █ EASTER EGG: █ ▇ ▆ ▅ ▄ ▂ ▁**

(You knew it was coming, guys ಠ‿ಠ )

_Source:<https://steamcommunity.com/sharedfiles/filedetails/?id=395075249>_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: yep. Stupid plot, stupid porn. Just because. I needed to have a laugh, so don't judge me xD  
> I have a four-chaptered Vulpes fic and another couple porn One-Shots that I will be editing to post here. Right now, this is all that I can offer. Hope, at least, it was worth a laugh ;)


	5. In Sanguis Veritas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PLOT: like a moth to the flame, Caesar's greatest Frumentarius feels irremediably attracted to the mysterious woman in black that cheated death in Goodsprings.  
> However, upon getting near to the object of his desires, he may be getting way more than he initially had bargained for. And without a return ticket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: blood, violence, mild cannibalism and general vampiric stuff. Yes, vampiric, you've read it right.
> 
> PD: this is more of a Plot With Porn than the other way around. Hope you still enjoy yourself despite of it.
> 
> [EDITED: done some minor changes and expanded the sex scene to make the experience worthwhile (still vampiric sex, so expect some cringe(y) situations). Since Fallout Kink Meme is dead, I am filling unfilled Vulpes prompts from there and posting on both sites].

He had followed her out of pure intrigue rather than duty.

Their many previous encounters along the Mojave Desert under very different circumstances and under various guises had led to a common pattern that had left him with more questions than answers.

They said she was a courier. A homeless drifter that walked the roads delivering letters to homesick NCR soldiers who would await the arrival of the silent mailwoman in black with hopeful eyes and bade their goodbyes with smiles and hearts swell.

After their first fateful encounter at Nipton, smoke rising to a sky full of stars, where an immediate interest had picked his curiosity for good after a brief verbal exchange that had left him so dazed that he had almost forgotten to give his men the signal to start their march to Cottonwood Cove, he had made sure that his spies would keep him conveniently informed about this woman’s whereabouts and particularities.

However, his Frumentarii had delivered him no records, no further insight into this mystery of a nameless woman prior to her death and miraculous resurrection at Goodsprings.

Nobody knew her, nobody could recall but vague details about her or the physical attributes that laid within that dark cowl of hers. Not even her employer, Johnson Nash, after an apparent transactional bargain for his wares and a few subtle nudging to loosen up his tongue, knew nothing beyond the number she had been assigned to her last errand: six.

So, she had been nicknamed among his incognito Frumentarii as “Courier Six”.

A second – this time carefully programmed - encounter at the Strip as she had abandoned the rambunctious structure of The Tops, they had conducted yet another brief dialogue in whispers sitting on the fountain’s edge in front of the Ultra-Luxe, resembling two lovers drawn to an illicit encounter.

He had been wearing a pristine brown suit and his sharp eyes had been obscured by the brim of his also brown hat. She, on the other hand, had been wearing her strange signature clothing of choice, not having bothered with disguise her presence amidst Profligate gamblers, prostitutes, and NCR troops with a more elegant outfit.

He had felt drawn to her the instant she had recognized him as soon as he had stepped into her field of view and had spoken gently to him, asking to walk with her, to accompany her to the fountain. The quiet murmur of waters a somehow soothing lull and a disguise for both their voices when she had leaned over him and he had caught wind of her sandy aroma.

She brought the desert with her, this vagabond, who carried a faint tang of metal and the murmur of the wind, quietly as she had extended her gloved hand to him, telling him that she already knew to what did she owed his presence.

He had passed the Mark of Caesar to her almost reverent, an odd and also thrilling chill coursing his arm as his fingers had but grazed hers with the act.

He had promised safety if she wished to accept Caesar’s offer, her non-violent deeds towards the many legionaries she had encountered throughout her long journey already marking her as a possible friend for the Legion, whereas she had smiled, her eyes obscured by dark biker goggles, red lips mesmerizing, assuring him that she will speak with their leader.

Incredulous when, upon arriving at Cottonwood Cove, he had found her already there teaching a very dazed Decanus how to disarm antipersonnel mines, he had offered her to be her escort along the river with Cursor Lucullus as a silent witness of how close they had sat to one another on the raft. His hip pleasantly cold against hers. Silvery waters beneath them a testament of their mute mutual understanding, a hooded woman and a masked man, night and shadows their shared element.

Caesar had bid her presence in his tent the next day at midday, she had presented at midnight.

If mildly irritated by her audacity, the Son of Mars had but quickly forgotten her transgression once she had engaged him in conversation… or more like an interrogatory, if one listened carefully.

Which he had, of course, standing by his Lord’s right side in silent wait, his eyes always wandering in her direction despite his best efforts. She hadn’t relinquished her hood or her goggles, so his attention had been naturally drawn upon her lips, beautiful and slightly plump like a rose.

A rose that had whispered questions to the _Imperator_ , who had looked at trance, his answers straight and elaborated even to the most daring line of questioning, pouring his origins and his philosophy onto her as if she had been his most trusted confidante, enthralled by her genuine interest, her pleasant manners and her soft voice.

Once she had seemed satisfied with what she had unearthed out of Caesar’s character, she had offered her services, revealing the Platinum Chip that had been lying in wait inside her pockets, the motive of why she had been assaulted and why Benny Gecko had gotten out The Tops’ Presidential Suite nevermore.

Fascinated, Caesar had asked what that tiny electronic device did. She said it opened a door. Caesar had said he had already deduced which door.

He had entrusted her with the destruction of whatever may have lain in wait on the bunker beneath Fortification Hill. This had but baffled him greatly, enchanting as he – too – found this woman in black, he wouldn’t have entrusted a stranger that seemed to know so much about their settlement with something so delicate. She wasn’t, after all, true to Caesar… yet.

Not an hour after, the ground had shaken and he had almost lost foot whereas his Lord had smiled pleased, still sat on his throne.

She had returned with the sun but breaking at the horizon and she had asked for a few hours of sleep before leaving back to Cottonwood Cove after Caesar had entrusted her with yet another delicate assignment: to kill the current owner of New Vegas and the mind behind the creation of the Platinum Chip – Robert Edwin House.

She had returned to her assigned tent and had not emerged until dusk.

He had been surprised when she had stopped by his own tent, asking for permission to enter.

He had found her politeness refreshing… for a Profligate, and he had consented her getting inside his little sanctuary.

Silent, she had taken a brief tour around his belongings, smiling in delight at the rather voluminous shelving full of books he treasured dearly, making the slaves carry them all when he had to move his tent… an occurrence that had not happened since the First Battle for the Hoover Dam four years ago. And four years weighed dearly over his shoulders when he thought about how many legionaries they had lost in this neverending campaign on the Mojave.

“Horace… Catullus… Propertius… Tibullus… Ovid…” – she enounced, her whisper tinted with an approving undertone – “The classics of the Golden Age of Roman Poetry.” – then, a throaty inhale of air – “Ah… my favorite… Virgil.”

Intrigued, he had approached her.

“Have you read Virgil?” – he had asked, both curious and a bit skeptic. Profligates were not precisely known for their love of literature.

In fact, he could nearly say the same about the ninety-nine percent of his legionary brothers. Even some of his Frumentarii, though encouraged to pursue knowledge beyond their role as spies, weren’t too keen on reading nothing that wasn’t orders or reports.

Sometimes, that notion made him feel incredibly alone, trapped inside his head with knowledge nobody cared, nor cherished as much as he did.

 _“Cur non, Mopse, boni quoniam conuenimus ambo,  
_ _tu calamos inflare leuis, ego dicere uersus,  
_ _hic corylis mixtas inter consedimus ulmos?”_

**_[Mopsus, now that we have met, good men both, you at blowing on the slender reeds, I at singing verses – why don’t we sit together here, where hazels mix with elms?]_ **

Her diction was delicate, her cadence melodic and her accent perfect when she ushered the question in Menalcas’ voice, citing the fifth part of Vergil’s Eclogues.

It had struck a chord within him, and he had felt but compelled to answer in Mopsus’ voice, the lines dearly known by heart.

 _“Tu maior; tibi me est aequom parere, Menalca,  
_ _siue sub incertas Zephyris motantibus umbras,  
_ _siue antro potius succedimus. Aspice ut antrum  
_ _siluestris raris sparsit labrusca racemis.”_

**_[You are the older, Menalcas: it is right for me to defer to you, whether we pass beneath the shadows that shift at the Zephyr’s stirring, or rather into the cave. See how the wild vine with its stray clusters has overrun it.]_ **

Two shepherds, the older inviting the younger to sit with him, both in mourn for a late companion, compassionate but also obliged to praise him. _Deifying_ him.

He hadn’t been sure if the choice had been out of genuine delight talking into the verses or purely intentional.

“I hadn’t the chance to look upon your whole semblance… until now.” – she had commented, her voice laced with gentle intent. He then realized it was the first time he faced her without any gear disguising his features and he felt kind of naked in front of the mirror her tinted goggles returned. Nonetheless, her hand had but risen towards his face, her gloved fingertips a ghost over his chin, delicate and caressing until she had quickly retreated her hand – “Forgive me.” – she apologized for her brief transgression – “I am so used to watch so many emaciated visages out in the Wasteland and so many artificial, masked faces at the Strip that it is truly a wonder to find beauty in an adult human.”

He hadn’t known how to respond to that and less how to address the way she had phrased it.

However, the sudden awkwardness had but dissipated as soon as she had asked if he would want something done before she departed again to Cottonwood Cove.

He hadn’t known if he should trust her, but his words had abandoned his lips before he could have stopped them: one of his informants, a woman named Martina Groesbeck, tethered at the brink of being dispatched by Nero’s lackeys once they caught wind of where she was currently lodging due to her indiscretions upon Omertas’ plans.

He needed her to be safe, not just her execution to be delayed.

And so, his mailwoman in black had but smiled, assuring him that Martina would be safe.

And she had made good on her word by what his spies had reported to him.

But she hadn’t come back. Not to inform about her success, not to bring to Caesar House’s head in a platter.

To say that he had felt disappointed had been an understatement. For a part of him felt deeply _betrayed_ at her impassiveness towards the Legion from that moment on forwarding: she wouldn’t attack or interfere with many of the Legion’s operations all over the Mojave Desert, true… but she, somehow, had not wanted further involvement with them.

So, he had been furious and he had made a point of following her personally, deemed already a Person of Interest for the Legion since she had agreed to spread word at what had happened at Nipton. Regardless of their origins, the Legion valued greatly their assets, even unconscious and passive as this woman was… for now.

It had started as duty… but the fascination was already there. It had been always there and he was man enough to acknowledge it despite what it implied.

For the Legion, for his Lord… for himself.

A loner by principle, this strange pale woman shrouded in black tatters of many different sets of misshaping clothing had kept refusing company as her travels onwards all the territory had opened to her the possibility of company from many different sources: a drunken redhead ex-caravanner, an ex-sniper from the NCR, a scavenger with a suspicious pneumatic gauntlet at the 188, a ghoul repairman she rescued from Black Mountain, a Followers of the Apocalypse doctor and a Nightkin among many others who had sought more her carnal attentions than her actual company.

She would turn down every speck of attention like one would avoid plague. Just as she seemed intent on traveling during nighttime, a dark specter wading silvery sands under the moonlight, confidante of the distant howling of the coyotes, accomplice with the Nightstalker population.

Animals would keep, somehow, avoiding her while mutated insects would simply ignore her when she had threaded through Cazador and fireant’s territories unmolested. No wonder she was able to travel so quickly between locations.

Raiders, however…

He had spotted them a mile ahead, much earlier than when she had taken her steps to one of their bonfires, taking a full group of eight people unaware until one of them had spotted the fire’s reflection against one of the lenses from her biker goggles.

“W-who the f-f-fuck are you?!” – one of the males, a rattled young man whose spiky mohawk was kept in place out of sheer grime and dirt, had exclaimed while pointing a sawed-off shotgun to her head.

“May I sit by the fire with you?” – she had asked in a drowsy, serene tone, tatters of black cloth undulating around her with the nightly breeze, creating the false illusion of ruffling feathers – “The night is cold and you have such a nice cozy place here…”

Had she gone _mad_?!

None of the other raiders seemed to react as they watched her in silent bafflement, several pairs of bloodshot eyes dilated with chems unmoving, as if trapped in a trance of sorts.

But the shaking youth from before started cackling, stopping in-between short intervals, bloodied snot trailing a single line downwards his left nostril to his chin.

A Psycho junkie.

“Wahaha… hahahaha… haha!!” – he screeched like a hysteric old lady, his dirty, skeletal frame almost spasming as he laughed – “Y-y-you heard t-that, guys?” – he asked, his voice strained and raspy – “B-bitch j-j-just wanna s-sit with us!”

A snort, and the gruff voice of a woman with dirty pink hair and half her head shaved; nose, brows and ears full of rusty piercings made out of nails and bullets spoke up.

“Hell, yeah.” – she nodded, humming appreciatively as she took in the stranger’s pale skin and full red lips – “Ye wanna share in tha warmth, sure thin’. But it may cost ya, sweet-cheeks.” – she added, lifting herself in all her rugged, muscled glory; gruesome tattoos covering her arms from wrist to shoulder where it disappeared under spiky leather armor to faintly emerge from the depths of her collarbone. Clearly the leader, she looked healthier, stronger and better fed than the rest of her pitiful band. She was almost a head taller than the shrouded woman in front of her – “C’mere n’ gimme a kiss.”

He had almost taken off his binoculars in disgust besides, secretly, being _affronted_ and feeling increasingly _betrayed_ , when his mysterious woman in black had met the raider scum’s embrace, locking her ruby lips with the other’s.

How could she allow such vermin to even touch her?! To speak to her in that disgusting manner?!

They were _unworthy_!

The rest of the lowlifes around the bonfire seemed to take this as a cue to surround the kissing pair, grimy bony hands stretching to pat and caress the shrouded figure, probing, testing waters until the feral growl of the mountainous woman with the pink hair drove them off her prize almost instantaneously.

“Keep yer fuckin’ paws off!” – she bellowed, a fierce glare set upon her brutal features, daring any of the pitiful underfed wastrels to touch her new toy again – “This cunt’s mine!” – but she almost calmed as soon as the crimson tip of the other woman’s tongue found her throat, ascended her jugular vein to her chin and came up to her lips, sliding inside the raider’s mouth playfully, earning an approving groan from her, who entertained her lips and tongue a bit more before breaking the kiss again, dazzled, almost amorous as the next words escaped her chapped lips – “Ye cold? Gotta damn fine mattress inside tha gas station over there.” – she offered, grinning widely with pride while she pointed to the small rundown building several paces ahead.

The woman in black nodded with a small, apparently beatific smile that was motivation enough for the other woman to grab her hand almost delicately to bring her in with her inside her fortress.

Despising what he had witnessed with all his soul, he had submerged into a violent spiral of rage, revolt and self-deprecation. Why he had thought her any different from these bunch of Degenerates that populated this godsforsaken desert? Had he been blind? Had her fancy palaver nullified his common sense?

All of those encounters with her… somehow, he had believed that they had been meant to meet, that fate itself had decreed for this lonesome drifter to be dropped on his lap so she could have driven the Legion to greater sights – namely atop of Hoover Dam and their crushing victory over the Republic. No need for Lanius and his barbaric methods when subterfuge and subtlety would do infinitely better.

Somehow, he had convinced himself that she would remain by his side. Perhaps rehearsing poetry together while they taught those Omertas traitors the value of loyalty by stringing them to their casino’s flaming advertisement, weaving intricate plots to bring Zion down along with its tribes and the resilient _ex-Legatus_ , whose baptism in fire had made him stronger than ever, pledging his rotten soul to a presumably omnipotent god to fuel his hatred for Caesar to ultimate victory.

They could have been great and mighty together.

Bringing his chaotic thoughts to a halt, he examined the nature of his despair cautiously, as if it was a sort of a clockwork bomb that ought to be treated delicately and with no small amount of finesse, turning it slowly to all possible sides so he could get a grasp of all of its angles.

Was his ego what it was suffering? For her to have chosen these poor excuses of human beings over him?

Or was it the knowledge that, despite what his rational part had kept telling him relentlessly since he had met her for the first time in Nipton, he had, somehow… _trusted_ her?

He had… _trusted_ her. He, who trusted _nobody_ since the day he was plucked from the arms of his mother when he had been eight after the wagon had reached Flagstaff and children and babies had been separated from their parents, siblings and loved ones.

He hadn’t trusted his fellow recruits, who would stick a machete in the back of your head should your dared to turn your back to them.

He hadn’t trusted his instructors, some being rude and needlessly cruel to the children, the rest too overly _affectionate_ to get near them.

He hadn’t trusted his Decanus as a recruit, for the man had been a nervous fool that, luckily, had gotten himself killed before he could get the men under his command killed as well.

He hadn’t trusted his Centurion, too proud and single-minded to search for alternatives when a tactic simply didn’t work. Ten lashes later had reinforced this sentiment.

He hadn’t trusted his former Master Frumentarius, too conceited to see that an old man that doesn’t train his body, as well as his mind, is good for nothing. His flaccid, bloodied carcass laying at the feet of Hoover Dam after the First Battle had proven him right.

He didn’t trust Lucius or any of his men. Too strong, too brutish, too short-sighted for their own good. The next challenger that comes around might prove him right once for all.

He didn’t trust Lanius or how he conceived strategy. He didn’t trust his loyalty and feared his lack of love for the Legion despite being next in line should the _Imperator_ died.

And he… after witnessing his Lord’s folly by trusting this courier drifter with his secrets and intentions… trust Caesar’s judgment no more.

But he had trusted her, like his Lord had done. Like pretty much everybody else she engaged in a conversation. Just a few well-placed words, a soft intonation and they were hers to use… and, later, discard.

But… that did seem right. Perhaps… to her, they were but pawns to manipulate at her leisure and nothing more.

This felt like an epiphany, rage quickly overcoming grief as he kept mulling over the same suspicion, shaping it, defining it, giving it form.

Before he could catch himself, he was already stomping towards the circle of human trash surrounding the fire, his blue eyes reflecting the blazes that illuminated grimaces of horror.

He hadn’t allowed a single one of them to retain their heads as he had decapitated them with the hungry, implacable teeth of his ripper, leaving the trembling Psycho junkie for the end so the disgusting sack of bones would witness the demise of his companions wholly before falling prey to the carnage as well.

But that didn’t allow him any measure of satisfaction, nor it diminished one bit the righteous fury that burned inside of him like an uncoiled conflagration of anger and despair as he directed his livid stare to the gas station’s entrance.

He wasn’t acting rationally, but more like a jilted lover that has just discovered he had been cheated on.

That woman… she had _bewitched_ him. Him, that had remained virtuous and purer than the weak, vulgar and licentious Profligate crowds spreading their filth so far to even reach many of his fellow men in the Legion!

How could she?! How _dared_ she poison him in the words of poets of the Old World, whispering like the sirens to Odysseus with the sole intention to lead him to perdition?!

She had taken Virgil’s voice to lead him to the very gates of Avernus, making him a mockery of a Dante, leaving him to rot amidst misery and the unforgivable sin of having surrendered to her charms, making him weaker beyond repair… beyond _redemption_.

All those years of sacrifices, of teachings and disillusions, striving to purity and perfection… wasted.

What did now his lessons serve for? What good would his sermons at Nipton can do now to the Dissolute? How could he adjudge himself the role of teacher when he hadn’t learned the lesson thus far?

But, oh, he will. As soon as he would bring that door down and catch the woman in black and her new lover in the act, he will learn his lesson.

And so they will, for he will decapitate the filthy raider in front of her and put the head between her trembling hands in mocking oblation, and he will kiss those red lips of sin as he will plunge a dagger to her black, traitorous heart.

Only then, and only then, he will learn his lesson upon tasting victory in blood, inhaling into her scent, stealing her soul with that kiss, as in the old rituals of his people when an enemy was brought down and the warriors retained their souls and strength by kissing the lips of their corpses.

His tongue inside her cold mouth would be her coin to pay the ferryman to transport her back where she belonged: in Hell.

Stomping his way towards the gas station, he allowed himself a brief moment to collect his cool. He wanted to confront the woman herself as well as his own forbidden, tainted love so he could crush both of them at the same time, joining idea and entity in one so the instant she will lie dead at his feet, his feelings would die with her as well.

She was a test, as test he shall pass. For the Legion, for Caesar… for his own sanity.

So, he kicked open the rusty door and charged in like a jealous Othello expecting to catch Desdemona in flagrant delict.

And a Desdemona, indeed, did he caught upon seeing the flaming red stream of impossibly long, lovely curls crowning the head of the most beautiful, hauntingly pale woman he had ever lied eyes upon. Her beauty so captivating he almost forgot his jealous, murdering intent when their eyes met for the first real time.

However, her leonine, most mesmerizing mane wasn’t the only crimson adorning such a Madonna when she finished turning to him and he saw the trail of blood that went from her plumped, most alluring lips unto her chin to disappear under the black tatters of her pulled scarf.

He almost threw himself to her, forgiving her unfaithful transgressions instantly, ready to catch her limp form as he would avenge her murder as equally as bloody.

But soon he discovered that she was no wounded maiden, nor he was a knight in shining armor when his blue eyes slid down the black rags of her outfit to take in the fallen, impossibly pale, dead form of the filthy woman raider with the pink hair laying on the ground with limbs sprawled in awkward positions the likes of a ragdoll.

“I am a trifle embarrassed you have seen that.” – his Desdemona spoke, her soft dreamlike voice operating a sedating effect he shouldn’t be experiencing in the least, long stiletto fangs poking out of her blossoming lips as she kept talking – “Furthermore, it pains me deeply to do what I'm going to be forced to do with you.”

Her words registered too slowly for him to ponder on their meaning until he had her in front of him, one hand shutting down the door behind him, the other cradling gently the back of his head; her unnatural, bright eyes rimmed red with blood tears as she regarded him one last time, a forlorn finger tracing the line of his jaw before nearing her lips to his pulsating throat.

He gave in without thinking, leaning in her smaller frame, embracing her form with all his might, eager to receive, at least, the same treatment that undeserving raider had gotten between her arms.

She seemed to hesitate, her lips bestowing a soft kiss over his jugular as she nuzzled the heated skin above with her dead-cold nose and lips, licking a thin, delicate line with the point of her tongue with a longing, thirsty sigh.

“Truly, a waste putting such a beautiful, young envelope to rest.” – she murmured, and he relished in every second she was allowing him to lean on her embrace – “A shame to deprive a heart like yours of its beating.” – she seemed to hesitate once more, her hungry lips pondering on mute questions over his skin, soft small kisses delaying what her sharp fangs craved the more – “Say, O Preacher of the Wastes… what would you answer if I pose you a question? One that would defy every single lesson, every single belief you have been taught since the day you were inducted into a culture you now worship as the One and True the same as the Christians of Old?”

“Ask away, Desdemona, and I shall give you my answer.” – he breathed.

She laughed softly, her lips smiling against his accelerating pulse.

“So… it was jealousy what brought you in here, right into the wolf’s maws.” – she said, her voice warmer and serpentine the same – “How… intriguing.” – she allowed herself a slight suckling bruise on his throat, one that made his whole body shudder in anticipation, before she continued – “I haven’t taken a lover in a long, long time.” – upon hearing his unhappy, jealous growling, she laughed again – “While I find your ardor most complimentary, you have no need for worry, for that was before you were born, my Preacher. Even before the bombs gave birth to this… devastated landscape.”

That revelation should have shaken him to the very marrow of his bones, freezing the blood on his veins or, at least, backing off a bit to this inhuman woman’s advances.

But he had been the one pursuing, in the first place, her attentions, her favors… the love he so desperately wished she would return.

She had been unlike any woman he had met, unlike any man… unlike any other single human being he had crossed paths with on this bitter earth to learn from, talk to or deprive of their life by the point of his ripper.

She had been different for a reason, the very reason why he so fervently desired her. He wasn’t going to question that reason, even if that made him a reckless fool or, ultimately, killed him.

Not even Caesar himself could compare to this wild, fascinating creature that lived through the night. Younger in appearance than him, yet way wiser than what fifty-five years may have taught to his Lord during his lifetime.

Caesar was the mortal avatar of a god, but this woman was timeless, the closest thing he could think of next to an _actual_ god without radiation to answer for her unnatural longevity, unlike ghouls and supermutants.

“The question I wanted to pose you before, O Preacher of mine, was… what if I told you that another entirely different manner of existence lies below the notice of mortal eyes?” – she asked, her voice taking him to places never known, sensations never experienced before – “What if I told that a hidden society exists, parallel to humans, but much more ancient, with secrets kept with zeal and roots long lost in the annals of History, way older than the Romans your Caesar so painstakingly tries to emulate?” – with each word, any possible resistance his upbringing might have posed was slowly disintegrating the more she kept revealing, whispering in his ear – “What if I told you that I’ve seen whole civilizations rise and fall the same your Legion or its most bitter enemy from California had and will eventually do, but ours had perpetuated its legacy throughout countless millennia?”

The more the numbers kept growing, the more he could barely contain his excitation.

He had always seen human societies faulty, no matter wherever he looked, the main purpose of Caesar’s – theoretically – had been to aim for a Synthesis between them and the NCR… but neither of those societies had been perfect.

To learn that other society, a resilient one, had endured the pass of time without falling was… the closest thing next to perfection.

And he knew now that perfection didn’t exist. Only the illusion of it.

But that didn’t deter him from aiming for better alternatives than what he already knew.

He told her all of the above, pouring in his thoughts, his expectations and doubts, challenging himself the very way he had been raised, wondering if what his Lord preached was nothing but an illusion from a madman instead of the vision from a wiseman.

The more he had spoken, the closer her arms had encased his wiry form, rocking both of their bodies back and forth as if still in doubt; but her soft tenderness telling him that she was warming up to the idea of taking him, and him but offering himself to her, everything he had, everything he thought, everything he was.

“You need to know that, once you accept the embrace of a _succuba_ , it is a point of no return.” – she whispered to him, relishing in his positive reaction at the Latin connotation. For a _succuba_ was all she had been to him right from the start: a _paramour,_ a most illicit love poisoning his every waking hour. An illness of the soul, an _obsession_ – “You will turn into something stronger and mightier than you already are… though at the price of becoming a barren, hollow creature that preys on the blood of the living. For we live through death and only the red, precious liquor can fill our chalices again, returning us the spark of life we lack.”

He had once read a tale. An incomplete one since the book had been half-burned. He had never managed to find another copy to finish the story.

In it, a man was invited to the home of another man… to later discover that his host had been a man no more for a long time. And he hadn’t intended to let his guest go away… ever.

These creatures of legend, smaller gods amongst human herds, had been object of speculation and fantasy even since before the bombs; many oral testimonies in the form of cautionary tales warning of their existence, of the measures to take in case of crossing roads with one of them.

He even recalled some of the many names the tribes at Utah used to chase their presence away: _Chin-Dee, Sanwee Lawatba, Chupacabra, Strigoi, Vǎrkolak…_

All undead leeches that found human flesh and blood to be sweeter than of any other prey.

Cannibals of a kind.

Suddenly, the idea repulsed him.

And what about his loyalties, his responsibilities… the life he had constructed around the idea of…

… Another man claiming to be a god…

A mortal vessel that, despite his claims, could be sufficiently persuaded by a soft-spoken, red-headed demon to stay his hand in front of her impudence, inciting him to spill secrets not even his Master Frumentarius should have heard inside that tent.

A tent where doubts had started brewing. Where the Son of Mars’ fragility had been but evident.

Her inhumanity might have persuaded him to talk… but it had been his malady what had called for measures desperate enough to even contemplate seeking the aid of a Profligate woman in the first place.

His Lord was dying and, with him, all of what he had known all of his life. With Lanius at the head of the Legion, his services will be rendered useless.

Would it be so bad allowing himself to be persuaded on seeking a new avenue for this conundrum of his? To allow this demon to take him, consequences be damned?

Was really that revolting trading loyalty for a master to another? He had been born a dog and a dog he would remain, no matter how beautifully he was collared.

A servant is always a servant.

And if this new mistress would allow him drink the sweet nectar of passion from her very lips… perhaps he rather preferred her undying beauty and intoxicating promises of a better society than what a feeble old man could offer him in his last days, mumbling about stalled loyalties and unfulfilled Syntheses.

So, the very instant her lips kissed his throat, he had already surrendered, his thoughts finding a strange, newly-found peace when her tongue draw the line… in which her teeth sank almost tenderly, making him forgive and forget everything that had weighed on his very existence for a sweet, sweet interlude… that was promptly interrupted by the urgency of her voice.

“Do not let yourself linger in the soothing embrace of the void, my Preacher, or you shall be swallowed by it forever!”

He hadn’t been aware that his legs had given up as he had sunk on his knees with her as his only support, a terrifying yet serene weakness seizing him as the world lost physical consistence, her arms cradling him and her lips hovering over his brow the only remaining physical sensations that were left in him.

With his blue eyes fixed upon her crimson pupils, he barely noticed her undressing her bosom, drawing a perfect, flawless line parallel to one of her pale breasts, opening a gap that started weeping a thin stream of dark tears.

“Drink, O Preacher of mine.” – she moaned – “Drink and rejoice in the dawn of the first of many countless nights.”

So drink he did, savoring every single drop of darkness she would allow him to pry from her generosity. For he had never taken more than he was offered… since he had been never gifted anything in all of his life.

Everything you desired, you have to earn it. Everything Caesar bestowed upon you was Caesar’s prerogative, not yours.

Accepting the kiss of this seductress might have been the only real choice he had been given since he could remember.

So, he allowed her to pry his lips from her cool flesh when she deemed it enough, hissing in pleasure when his greedy tongue made one last pass.

Her bloodied lips claimed his and, as if she were infusing life and strength back into his lungs through mere contact, his arms regained feeling at an impossible speed when they cradled her in return to how she had been cradling him, his hands attempting to peel the shadowy garments from her ivory shoulder to find stiletto-like nails emerging from his own fingers puncturing slightly at her skin.

With a sing-song laugh, she took his long fingers between hers and kissed them from knuckle to tip, one by one.

“My, such a wild, eager hatchling you have turned out to be, baring claws even when you are still but ripping through your eggshell!” – she exclaimed, delighted, cupping his face between her hands; the redness of her pointy tongue undulating between her fangs in a most mesmerizing way – “What a fine hunter you shall do when you will be walking the night beside me.”

And then, her lips had claimed his.

He wasn’t sure in which order the series of images his fractured memory retained from that night had happened… but once all remaining clothing had been shed so nothing could stand between their shared passion, reality had distorted in a way he had never suspected it possible, dragging him with the tide, drowning every single coherent thought between her red lips kissing and suckling bruises on every single inch of his body, and him answering in kind.

He recalled making her laugh once or twice with a clever choice of stimulating actions, his fingers growing daring and knowledgeable the more they pried among unconquered territory, caressing and slicing the same, making her later moan and even snarl the likes he would have never thought possible in a woman so apparently delicate. For she was savage, savage as his own namesake… and she enjoyed delivering pleasure the same she relished lacing said pleasure with pain.

But painful had been already his helpless commitment to her prior to their _liaison_ , so pain he took from her with his greatest pleasure, responding eagerly in kind.

For the same he could picture himself mounting her savagely, with her loud vocal appreciation creating a steady, synchronized compass along with the hard slaps their meeting flesh would drum in the background… he could also recall worshipping tender petals of moistened flesh with his own mouth, something he wouldn’t have even considered himself doing for any other living soul since such practices were deemed… degrading, unfit for a man of the Legion.

Nevertheless, the Legion had never taught his men that the more you _pried_ rather than _claim_ the mysteries of the female body, the more rewarding were the reactions you could obtain. Even if such reactions might have been interpreted as _violent_ by many.

For violence had been shared between them embracing amongst a bloodbath, pale bodies covered in red as they had intertwined fingers, limbs and tongues; stealing kisses, stealing bites.

Even if he had the vague notion that it was _biologically impossible_ , he somehow had very clear, very distinct flashes of memory that had spoken of him taking her relentlessly in different positions, lasting way more than he was used, that had elicited trails of electric current down his now _inhumanly_ flexible spine until she would twist her hips in a _peculiar_ way that would render him at her mercy, her inner muscles clenching around him viciously as she would set another entirely different rhythm, her wiry arms and firm hands keeping him in place by grabbing a knee, a shoulder or even the very throat, keeping him prisoner in a way he wasn’t used and he thoroughly enjoyed.

Occasionally, she would make him sing with a hand petting him in the right way or a tongue drawing circles around sensitive areas she would puncture first, setting every nerve ending on fire.

But hers… oh, her delightful chanting could have competed even with the very sirens of the mythic Odysseus…! He should have had to be either deaf or heavily restrained not to answer the tender luring of her song.

Endless and mysterious as the nights in the desert were, often confusing the senses, his perception often swam when one moment he thought he was making love to her passionately against one of the building’s cracked walls, hips digging with a speed and an intensity he hadn’t anticipated being possible between her welcoming thighs, an arm supporting one of her legs as his hand cupped one of her buttocks, fingers digging in viciously to open her wider to his hammering intrusion… then the next he was sitting with her face to face on the dirty mattress where they had laid the raider woman’s corpse between them, biting chunks of mort flesh viciously to pry off more of the precious liquid he now thirsted for.

So great and terrible had been his need, that she had lain him over the bloodied mattress, confounding his perception with the embrace of her body. Her tongue had caressed his throbbing length from tip to root, pinning him down effectively by his legs when he had attempted to get himself up, thirsting for the dead bodies waiting for him outside.

He also recalled whimpering like a spoiled child when she had planted her elbows over his quadriceps firmly, digging thumbs on his pectineus muscles painfully as she had taken him on her mouth, making him hiss every time her lips would retrace their path upwards, ending in her tongue prodding his tip’s crevasse as her elongated fangs would slice superficially through veins, filling the basin of his crotch and legs with blood she would lick with undisguised gluttony.

A moment he would think she was draining him, the next she was crawling upwards his torso, kissing her way up until her hips would align with his, and her then-warm labia would tease him up and down again, coating him in bloodied gleam before sheathing him inside her to ride him at her leisure.

Then his hands would go to her hips, aiding in her relentless hammering until they had circled down to her buttocks again, raking angry red lines up to her shoulders as he rose; first lips, then teeth seeking her breast’s delights, cupping their weight as he stole what he had been stolen, her hands grabbing his shoulders as she had increased her pace. Her inner muscles wrapping him so tightly his eyes watered in pure delight before thrusting inside her brutally to give way at what had been building through the night.

The explosion of taste and pleasure alike combined had been like nothing he recalled experiencing before, filling her as she had filled him; both their gasping, bloodied countenances sharp as daggers when they had smiled to one another, her disquiet tongue dancing with his’ lazily, almost tenderly, sweeping every surface in search of more shared liquid, thirsting to one another.

“So vigorous…” – she sighed, contented and dazed in their combined drugged happiness – “Who would have thought such a stern frown has been masking all of this whirlwind of lust and passion? My poor dear, you must have suffered greatly through that self-imposed repression when there’s so much you have yet to offer to the world… even more now that you are an _incubus_. Pure thirst, pure desire.”

And he had accepted her words the same he had accepted the tenderest parts of flesh she had gathered from outside, feeding them to him so he could quench what his tongue demanded so insistently until dawn had broken through the rifts in-between wooden planks nailed to the gas station’s windows, shedding specs of dust floating in the air.

The moment he had neared the tiniest slit of lighting, the daring hand attempting to pry further had boiled.

His screams had been promptly soothed between her safe arms when she had pried him off the burning pain, taking his back to her naked chest, allowing him to lie down as she kissed his burned fingers one by one again. The metallic scent of dried blood mingled with sex permeating the air inside the building heavily.

“The very instant you accepted my kiss, you renounced to all the light in this world, my Preacher.” – she told him with a sad smile, consoling him by cradling his head on her bosom – “But fear not, my dear, for when you will awake at dusk, your pain will be but a distant memory.”

Her words had lulled him down to an intense, heavy sleep in where he drifted off in a dreamless state until the call of the night had opened his eyes again and he had rejoiced in her cold embrace once more before she had begun to explain him the functionalities of his new nature.

His hand had never felt smoother and softer before.

* * *

Eyeing the Strip’s North Gates with something vaguely akin to disdain, the Courier’s newest acquisition needed no more than a well-placed, roaming hand at the small of his back to immediately melt in her touch; the very same he had kept doing for the last week when she would seek his heated attentions to rekindle that old flame that hadn’t abandoned her despite the centuries she spent in despair, lamenting herself on how misguided the human nature could be when given too much power.

A decision she had backed when their senseless clan disputes with the Shi had inevitably dragged humans in, selling them the petroleum cause as the perfect excuse to war amidst themselves meanwhile they prepared themselves to counter Chinese plans to turn all the American population into thralls so the rest of the world deemed necessary to cut any economical ties by creating a massive quarantine where the Enclave would be forced to starve until pushed to comma.

They had wanted to play big, so the United States had been the first sending a nuclear attack.

Now what remained of the Shi that were sent from China to deal with the failed virus release lived in the Old San Francisco, wanting no further involvement in more petty clan quarrels. After two hundred years living in squalor amidst radiation, she couldn’t say that she blamed them.

And the Enclave… well, experience had taught her well enough about what happens when you lend power to a human. And Richardson had been no exception.

Despite social and technological advances, both Pre and Post-War mortals weren’t much different than when Caligula reigned. The only crucial distinction was that modern Governments were much harder to bring down than simply conspiring with the Praetorian Guard and an affronted tax collector.

Not that her deliciously young new lover needed to know all the details. At least for now.

She had forgotten just how ardent newborns could be, so full of energy and curiosity.

It almost made her feel young again.

For his insatiable curiosity was the main reason as to why they were here instead of prolonging what she called the _“Honeymoon Phase”_ yet another month. After all, both the Powder Gangers and the Fiends had proven more than an adequate _training_ to temper her Preacher’s still raw abilities.

He was a natural, the darling; it made her incredibly satisfied watching him enjoy himself so much.

“Ma’am.” – one of Robert’s security thralls crooned when they recognized her, nodding with his dead eyes before opening the gates for them. Always so formal, always so devoid of emotion. Even a machine would have replicated human behavior better than these poor mindless slaves Post-Apocalyptical humans dubbed as “securitrons”.

“I have often wondered about the strange employees Mr. House keeps around.” – she heard him whispering, for they could hear one another even amidst the ruckus drunken NCR troopers created around one of the fewer parts of the Old World that seemed untouched by time – “Immune to bribing or any other manner of corruption. Admirable, yes… though unnerving after being prodded by my agents without as much as batting a lash to offers very few men would have spurned. Such blind, mindless loyalty cannot even be instilled by the most adept Legion Slavemaster.”

“Desperate times begged for desperate measures, my Preacher.” – had been her heavy reply – “We haven’t had the need for human thralls long since the Union Pacific Railroad was finished.”

Dates and events didn’t seem to bother him too much despite pertaining to parts of History he hadn’t experienced, but only read about. His curiosity greater than what may have overwhelmed and even horrified others in his place.

“Why then the alliance with the Families?” – he asked once more – “Having these loyal servants at your disposition…”

Oh, how delightful he was, seeking information even now, free as he was from his Lord’s constrictive grasp.

“Oh, darling… what makes you think that either Nero, Big Sal, Marjorie, Mortimer, Swank and even the unfortunate Benny Gecko aren’t part of our society?” – she asked, smiling fondly at receiving one of _those looks_ , when he came up to a conclusion of his own.

“Then, what happened in Goodsprings…”

Her smile amplified.

“This is a game we have been playing for centuries… and so, whereas Benny’s childish moves are born out of misplaced greed and a false sense of security, they weren’t something we hadn’t anticipated. Not since he murdered his former leader nine years ago to be the one obtaining the privilege of being turned instead of him.”

She didn’t voice out the due _punishment_ that awaited to those who betrayed the Alliance, no matter their status as younglings by their standards. Nonetheless, she was sure her clever Preacher would have already drawn his own conclusions. Not for nothing one of the things she truly prized from him was his brains.

Once they reached the bottom of the steps that would lead them to one of the most closely guarded secrets of the desert, she felt him hesitating briefly until the main doors opened and Victor arrived to receive them.

“Howdy, pardner! Sure is one fine evening, ain’t it?” - he exclaimed, always the eccentric old man she had dug from the deepest bottom of a half-empty whiskey glass in a seedy Saloon more than four hundred years ago, when Little America was still little – “Might I say, you’re looking fit as a fiddle.” – he added with a playful wink.

“Oh, don’t you start, flatterer.” – she replied with a hearty laugh, something that only Victor managed to achieve every single time he came up with one of his good-natured quips, allowing him to pick her hand by the knuckles to plant his customary kiss on, earning an unhappy growl from her charmingly jealous lover – “Do tell me, my good friend, does Robert receive visits tonight?”

“Sure thing!” – the man confirmed, diverting briefly his supernatural eyes under the ample wing of his cowboy hat to her companion – “New in the family, eh?” – he nodded amicably to the other, giving then to her a playful pout – “Aw, so you’ve gotten yourself a new pardner in crime to cause mischief around. Tired already of old Vic, eh?”

Taking her hand to his cheek, she gave who she _truly_ considered her oldest friend her warmest smile. If it hadn’t been because of Victor, she _may_ not have survived America’s Old West the same she _certainly_ wouldn’t have survived Benny’s ultraviolet ammunition a few months ago. And loyalty was a precious commodity these days, since decent people like Victor tended to remain on the almost-extinct side.

“I don’t think it exists a force in nature strong enough to dissuade me from withdrawing my affections for you, old friend.” – she said with all the honesty that still held a place inside her dark, dark heart – “Never doubt that.”

The way Victor’s eyes gleamed briefly to be promptly rimmed in liquid red made her reach instinctively with her thumb, sweeping away those tears that may have been the most natural thing in the world for them, but caused discomfort amidst the mortal coil.

“Ah, don’t let this old man have you dilly-dallying all night here.” – he harrumphed, lowering even more the brim of his hat to disguise his eyes as he retired from her cold touch – “I’ll let the boss know you’ve moseyed on up the Lucky. Meanwhile, have a drink on the house!” – he added once he gallantly led them inside right to the bar on the Casino Floor, signaling the barman to attend them – “I’ll be back in no time!”

And, with that, he disappeared amidst the pleasantly quiet multitude, a tide of unnatural eyes - some red, some not quite yet depending on the “seniority” – landed upon them with polite, contained curiosity. A new arrival always caused some mild uproar.

Despite her thoughts being always more on the somber side every single time she had to stop by the Lucky, uncomfortable at the decadent, insultingly clean splendor it offered in contrast to the ones owned by the Families, she couldn’t help but giggle when her delicious new lover didn’t hide his grimace upon tasting the unsubstantial, refrigerated blood reserves they were paid in tribute from their many human employees that most of their kind had gotten used to throughout centuries living off pre-War reserves Robert House had so foresightedly acquired for their usage prior to the bombs, every single one of them suspended in a controlled comma to minimize risks and consumption until his computers had woken them all once radiation had dispersed from a good part of the atmosphere. She would know, since she had been one of the fortunate chosen along with Victor and many others who had gotten a pod the same many humans had gotten a place inside those Vaults.

Without Robert, her already dilated existence would have come to a stop, since being a _succuba_ or an _incubus_ didn’t make you invulnerable, even less with chemicals and atomic energy. An energy gun could be as lethal as any good ol’ wooden stake… and let’s not start with ultraviolet ammo.

“Oh, sugar, I didn’t know you were in town!” – a familiar voice reached her from behind until she turned around her cushioned stool to receive Jane’s feather-like hug – “Otherwise I would have arranged for your suite to be immediately prepared!”

Jane was one of Robert’s… let’s say “dalliances” that had gotten a tad too out of hand once she had discovered the nature of the celebrity that had invited her over to discuss her professional career. That had been a decade before the bombs and Jane had been only twenty by then.

Just the same she had remained up to this very day.

She returned the hug carefully, as she felt more comfortable around Norma, Robert’s casual paramour when she got the itch, since she had been the one who had turned him and not the other way around like what had happened with Jane. She said the intellectual type could be as incredibly charming as they could be _incredibly boring_ sometimes when they got submerged into their obsession field of choice.

Knowing Robert, she couldn’t help but agree with Norma on that one.

Jane chatted her ear off regarding the newest gossiping going on in Vegas whilst glaringly staring at her legionary with undisguised interest, making the both of them uncomfortably tense until Victor had come up to the rescue, practically _extricating_ them out of Jane’s reach.

“Thank you, Victor.” – she had expressed once they had been inside the elevator, out of reach of indiscrete ears

“No problem, pardner.” – the man replied genially – “Taking a peek or two hasn’t killed anybody yet… but enough’s enough. Wouldn’t want the boy getting the wrong impression we’re all bad pennies here.”

She was already containing the surge of laughter that threatened to surface from the depths of her lungs when her Savage Fox regarded Victor with ill-masked aloof indignation.

“I have yet to hear from any thirty-three-year-old man being called a ‘boy’, my good man.” – he interjected with his usual smooth, slightly haughty tone.

That very tone that had won her attention the very instant he had received her with a… most _original_ presentation card surrounding them to speak for itself. She had desired the ugliness of his soul the same she had desired the unmatched beauty of his voice.

A woman could allow herself a small weakness from time to time. The more if such weakness wore his affront this cutely.

Victor might have gotten the same idea, for he laughed quietly before the elevator’s doors dinged and he signaled them to enter the Penthouse Floor before disappearing back again inside the quadrangle.

Eyeing the vast expanse of the roulette-shaped floor surrounded by crystals that, during the daylight, might turn out to be a lethal trap for one of their species, her beautiful Preacher directed her a doubting look, perhaps still getting used to the spotless splendor of pre-War facilities.

In answer, she took his hand in hers and kissed it before intertwining her fingers with his’.

They walked hand in hand to the lonely, sharp-dressed sitting figure that turned around to face them with calmed contemplation.

Because, for Robert Edwin House, every single living being, inhuman or not, held the same clinical, statistical worth. As if the world around him were his private experiment, not much different from that old tired Caesar sitting on his old tired throne made of well-intentioned lies and half-truths.

Powerful men and their insufferable mythology.

Nevertheless, after directing her new acquisition a mild approving look, Robert opened his fanged mouth, his crimson eyes vigilant.

“Welcome back.” – he greeted her mild-condescendingly. For, to Robert, everything was mild except for his grandiose plans playing the savior of the entire human race… or that was how he wanted to disguise his interest in keeping the agonizing race that supplied him of his aliment – “I see you had been occupied as of late… if the dashing, Legion-aligned newborn that accompanies you is an embodying proof of your recent _distraction_. I trust you know what are you doing entertaining his company.” – he added, pointing her poked-faced companion with his already hungry eyes.

She directed him the same condescending smile. After all, despite owing him being still alive, she didn’t owe to him any explanations regarding her personal life.

It was like talking to a petulant child.

“Rest assured, dear Robert, that _entertainment_ is but only one of the many _distractions_ I have found in this one’s company.” – she replied, earning a complicit gaze out of her intense Preacher, whose eyes were already shining with mute promises of unbridled passion once they would be alone again out in the desert, when he would take her deliciously rough over the cold dunes amidst radscorpion territory.

Squinting with, once again, mild annoyance, Robert House crossed fingers below his chin. With his well-groomed businessman appearance and his intellect, he could have been appealing… if he hadn’t been so utterly insufferable.

“Very well.” – he conceded, caving in his veiled warnings – “Nevertheless, as you may imagine, your services are needed here if we are but hoping to take those NCR dignitaries out of the equation. They are starting to be _excessively nosy_ for my liking and this, you know, affects us all. So, there is a job that needs doing here, and I am assigning it to you.” – inclining forwards slightly, he added – “Shall we start, or there is yet another surprise for this fine evening… dearest Carmilla?”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: this one was unfinished when I picked it again to see if I could save something, so that's why the second part feels like a completely new tone in narration, since I wanted for the "Altered Lore" to make sense. I have, in fact, a fragment that deals with Vulpes confronting Caesar after being transformed... so I might be persuaded to write a second chapter with more sexy times (I swear solemnly that it will contain smut... maybe with Lanius and some others, I haven't decided it yet).
> 
> What do you think? It deserves a continuation or shall I leave it as it is?  
> ... Or maybe I should expand this One-Shot adding that scene and another couple more? No sex with Caesar, I promise. That's something way ickier than my current standards.


	6. His Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PLOT: Vulpes Inculta is not an individual, but a title passed from Master to disciple since the Legion is Legion.  
> Then, when the new acquisition among Frumentarii ranks begins displaying a dangerous interest in their Commander, it begs for a lesson to be taught to the daring young agent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: homophobic and misogynistic implications, rough sex, forbidden lust, implicit humiliation, and pretty much how Legion views human relationships in general.
> 
> Written for the Fallout Kink Meme about a prompt that read as follows: "Vulpes Selfcest - I don't know if this has been done before, but yeah, basically Blonde!Vulpes and Game Version Vulpes doing things together (not only dirty)
> 
> Any kink you want except object insertion.  
> <3 go, make your imagination fly."
> 
> Not exactly what the prompt asked for, but still the two Vulpes engaging one another. Enjoy.

* * *

_“ **Frumentarii** (also known as **vulpes** ) were officials of the Roman Empire, originally collectors of wheat (frumentum), who also acted as the secret service of the Roman Empire in the 2nd and 3rd centuries.”_

* * *

Any book dwelling in Ancient Rome History, _miraculously_ preserved from the blazes of the Great War, that had also _miraculously_ arrived at his avid hands after more than two centuries without printers to produce such a tiny piece of wordy marvel and knowledge, had told him this much regarding the obligations of his Order and what means to be a Frumentarius.

What means to be a Fox.

If the formula to refer to an agent amidst their ranks derived from the structure to put the substantive before the legionary’s name – as in _“Vulpes Cato”_ or _“Vulpes Alerio”_ , to cite some of the oldest faces amongst them – the only invariable formula was the one especially reserved for the Greatest Frumentarius: Vulpes Inculta.

Roughly translated into the Vernacular English tongue of the Profligate population as _“Savage Fox”,_ the name of Vulpes Inculta was a long-standing inheritance tradition from Master to disciple that was almost as old as the Legion itself.

He currently was the seventh Vulpes Inculta that have served under Caesar’s regime, four years had passed since his official promotion.

Four years since Joshua Graham had been defeated at Boulder City.

Four years since his Master had gone MIA amidst the explosion that had changed everything.

Since he had been entrusted with the leadership of the Order of Caesar’s Frumentarii, he still hadn’t mustered up the courage to travel to Boulder City – now NCR territory – incognito to pay his respects.

To put at rest the restlessness and the due untamable feelings that had haunted his every waking hour since the incident.

If he tried hard enough, the rational part of his brains had always known that many lives were always forfeited amidst warfare and that recovering the bodies of fallen soldiers wasn’t always a possibility, even less when there’s either energy weapons or explosives involved.

However… the absence of a body… and the utter impossibility to find further proof of his old Master’s demise had been a thorn on his side that got longer and sharper every single time one of his agents would return from the umpteenth scout mission to report the same disheartening conclusion: that nothing conclusive could be unearthed from the various explosions the NCR had dotted the landscape with to stop further Legion advancement, and that the trail had grown cold after four years.

Nevertheless, after those very four years, his men had grown tired of coming up with the same news as well as Caesar had deemed useless to invest the effort of trained agents on a dead-end mission nobody was interested in anymore.

Nobody but him, the current Master Frumentarius; yet another Vulpes Inculta whose very existence was but a carbon copy echo of the previous men that had been in his place.

He knew that he was merely delaying the inevitable, but he knew deep inside that he had to come to terms with the fact that his mind wouldn’t get a single moment of peace if he didn’t see it for himself.

To see that the man that had come before him had physically vanished in thin air just the very same his original name had been erased from the Legion records since he was named Vulpes Inculta.

Just the same that will happen to him, his name along with his very identity erased from History the moment he took the Fox’s mantle.

_“Well, well, well! And who may happen you to be, child?”_

He had been thirteen and fairly mischievous, to be perfectly honest.

He had tried to play his instructor for a fool denying his involvement in some innocuous prank that had… well, let’s say, _been considerably less funny when one looked at it under the victim’s lens_ , that had gotten the man furious enough to give him chase throughout the whole encampment at Flagstaff until he had gotten inside the first tent in sight to sidetrack his pursuer.

The tent had looked empty at first, which had suited his then-current predicament just fine… until a soft, strangely sibylline voice had uttered the very same words lines above.

The owner of such a voice had been a man in his early twenties with an unimpressive build, all of him sinewy and tendinous, but blessed with a strange magnetic allure that had gotten the thirteen-year-old off-guard.

Mainly because, despite having been starting hitting puberty, he had kept behaving as childish as one would have expected out of a seven-year-old fresh from the priestesses’ arms in the Temple of Mars rather than an adolescent that was already two years shy from becoming a recruit legionary.

He would remember that moment for years to come as the instant he had realized two things about himself: that his childhood had definitely come to an end, as much as he had tried to deny it by partaking in games almost all of his peers had but left behind long ago… and that what he found _alluring_ and _desirable_ didn’t fit the norm of what a _respectable_ legionary should.

Lean, not exceptionally tall and, by no means, exceptionally tough-looking; the man that had been inside that tent had sported a gaunt, pale complexion that, coupled with his overgrown curly hairstyle, had given him a deceitful feminine air that had almost immediately rendered the thirteen-year-old in front of him flustered and incredibly shy. He had been incapable of uttering a single coherent response to this stranger’s mesmerizing words when his instructor had finally grown wise and had caught him before he could escape, apologizing in advance to whom the adolescent had learned to be Vulpes Inculta, leader of Caesar’s Frumentarii.

The good-natured laugh that had followed his brusque departure at the hands of his very pissed-off instructor had remained ingrained in his psyche even after receiving the due beating as punishment for his shenanigans. That very night, he had dreamed of the slender Master Frumentarius and the magnetic blue of his eyes laughing warmly for his ears only to listen.

And then, from that day on, his own voice had begun to change.

As days had become weeks, and weeks had become months, his younger self had consistently kept looking for gaps in-between his tightly-scheduled training sessions to follow the intriguing Master Frumentarius around the encampment the likes of a lost puppy. Sometimes earning a lopsided grin or even a nod from the man that, later, would fuel his increasingly sensual, though still innocent fantasies at night.

He would often wonder what would be like to embrace a man so apparently delicate, yet so strong if the worked, lean muscles of his arms and naked legs were of further indication. Would he feel as soft as the curls of his white hair seemed to suggest… or will his embrace be hard and unyielding as the storming blue of his eyes communicated every time he confronted a particularly undisciplined recruit?

As his body matured, so did his desire for those lips he wished he had a chance to simply graze with his own… and the fear and respect that came after witnessing how he dealt with disloyalty.

_“When legionaries are disloyal, some are punished, the others made to watch.”_

A whole _contubernium_ were made to deal with their Decanus under Vulpes Inculta’s direct supervision. There, he had learned of the Master Frumentarius’ lessons, listening in rapt attention the discourses he dedicated to the rest of the encampment, teaching them that the eyes of the mighty Caesar were upon all of them, watching, judging.

His words had been the source of inspiration the future recruit had used to earn the position of Decanus after proving his worth at the tender age of seventeen.

His lessons had fueled his ambition to become something more when he had openly ignored his Centurion’s orders in favor of strategy.

His ability to think for himself had earned him twenty lashes in front of his men as the eyes of the Son of Mars had observed him from above, not flinching a single time when the whip would crack over his exposed flesh.

He had endured dishonor and humiliation without lowering his head or closing his eyes even once, his face turned to where Caesar had been sitting… but his eyes wandering further, behind his throne from where a blue, unreadable stare locked with his’ briefly before diverting his attention to the Son of Mars, leaning on his ear to whisper him something.

After his Centurion had quenched his thirst for blood, he had been left in the same position in which he had endured the outcome of his impudence: tightly bound to the wooden post where he had been abandoned to presumably reflect upon his actions… until unconsciousness had claimed him.

He had awoken much later to the feeling of precise, dexterous hands painting smears of healing poultice over his cleaned wounds.

 _“Ah, there you are: alive and conscious as I hoped.”_ – the smooth voice of Vulpes Inculta had acted more of a balm for his injuries rather than the cool strokes of his rough fingers – _“If… not ideally how I had anticipated you would end landing on my lap, here we are despite everything.”_ – he had whispered, his voice sending small jolts of pleasure throughout his delirious system – _“As a Frumentarius, the first thing you need to know is that you are a fox, a clever animal that is expected to be able to adapt and survive under the most unsuspected circumstances. Before your very name, you will first and foremost always be a Vulpes.”_ – he had sentenced, bestowing the honor of their common name upon him – _“This being said, as your new Commander… how shall I address you, Vulpes?”_

It hadn’t mattered what his Legion name had been once just the same it hadn’t mattered what his tribal name had been when he had been a child. From that day on forward, he had been Vulpes. A mere cub learning from the den leader.

He had never known he could be such an adept student… until the teacher had been the right one.

_“My, my… such an inquisitive mind do we have here! What an excellent agent you shall do, my precocious pupil.”_

Every praise treasured beyond measure.

_“Ah ah ah. What did I say about keeping that temper in check? You cannot possibly infiltrate another culture without learning patience and self-restraint. How can you sell an act without believing in the character you are representing?”_

Every failure meticulously examined, so he wouldn’t relapse ever again.

_“Mars… aren’t you an eager one?”_

But relapse did he every time the Savage Fox would correct his posture, training his rough combat moves, honeying his already present abilities. His firm hands upon his shoulders, his waist, his arms…

Always leading him.

_“You are playing a dangerous game, boy.”_

The very moment he had realized how his hands had found his Master’s wrists, thumbs caressing idly soft skin where veins condensed in a same path of flesh and blood, seeking unconsciously to be - for once - the one leading, had suddenly uncovered what should have never been brought over the surface.

Mortified, he had released the pale man in front of him, taking several steps back towards the tent’s entrance, already in tension, anticipating the due punishment that would come out of this grave transgression.

He had known all the time that such a fantasy should not be. They taught you since you were a child that desiring the embrace of another man, the more if such a man was also Legion, was a grave affront against the very regime that gave them food, lodging and purpose beyond the tribal life almost all of them came from. If you wanted to release some pent-up frustration, you sought female slaves. They were specifically trained to fulfill such a purpose.

Some officers were lenient towards such practices, saying that helped the legionaries to bond together, giving them a morale boost.

However, nobody dared to say it out loud, the more if Caesar or one of his trusted men were around.

And Vulpes Inculta, leader of the spies, was supposed to belong amidst the dictator’s inner circle. It had been a mistake to display such inclinations in front of him.

The moment he had tried to flee in a panic, his mentor had been already there, blocking his chance at escaping, his movements around the quadrangle lithe and silent when he had tackled him to the rammed earth, pinning him down efficiently with an economy of movement that had rendered him breathless, sitting atop his stomach while immobilizing both of his arms with lean, toned legs.

His body had betrayed him even before he could open his mouth to present his apologies.

Inculta’s face had been unreadable. He may as well had been a sphinx, ready to strangle and devour him for solving his riddle wrongly.

 _“You shouldn’t have done that.”_ – the man had told him. Not recriminatingly, but softly, as if he had been saddened somehow – _“You know very well the price you will have to pay for indulging in such licentious propensities.”_ – his blue eyes had turned into thin icy slits before adding – _“I should punish your impudence. What do you think?”_

Terrified as he had been, his subconscious had acted in his place, making him assent in agreement.

The steely countenance above him had looked pensive upon studying him. His whitish curls giving him a misleading angelic appearance.

 _“So…”_ – Inculta had breathed, resting a hand upon his trembling chest lightly – _“You truly believe you need to be punished… interesting.”_

His hand had trailed down his red tunic, completely devoid of the usual padded armor pieces of a Frumentarius, since the majority of the lessons a spy had to undergo were more on the theoretical, intellectual side. The very instant that pale hand had gotten ahold of the hem of his tunic, he had gasped when he had tucked it upwards, leaving his naked torso and lower underwear exposed.

Shame had burned aflame in his cheeks as he had been well-aware of the huge crotch tent he must have been sporting at the moment, the friction between his most sensitive area and Inculta’s _pteruges_ combined with his earlier pressure had proven to be too much for him.

Hooking his fingers around the hem of his boxers as well, the Master Frumentarius had brusquely yanked them down, his hot flesh already accusing the cool gust of air this exposition had brought upon him.

 _“Don’t move.”_ – Inculta had ordered when he had made a weak attempt at wriggling himself off his grasp – _“You agreed that you deserve to be punished, so don’t you dare fight me.”_

He had been already bracing himself for the next painful sensation to hit him… to face, instead, a sudden wave of unexpected, terrifying pleasure when a hand had enclosed around his already throbbing erection, beginning to massage it up and down with a calloused thumb.

Not believing what he was experiencing, he had deviated both head and eyes from Inculta’s face until the man’s unyielding fingers had grasped his chin brusquely, forcing him back where he wanted him. His other hand squeezing his member painfully.

 _“I did not give you permission to withdraw your eyes.”_ – he had stated sternly, his white brow furrowing slightly – _“Besides, a true legionary faces whatever is thrown at him with a head high. Only slaves and dogs wear their heads and eyes low, understand?”_

He had nodded at him eagerly, locking blue with blue as the hand around his manhood had resumed its previous activity. Hot, gleaming precum already sliding down the length to the fingers caressing it tortuously slow, rough fingertips pulling the skin envelope down until his glans had crowned a full erection that was becoming increasingly painful the more he kept the stimuli.

Thoughts had started swimming inside his head, slowly melting in a puddle of arousal and desire that kept escalating the more he looked in his eyes, perfectly reflected in his small pupils as the other surely had seen him: dazed, subdued, cheeks burning and lips engorged and moistened, totally devoted to the man and the delicious sensation he was creating.

He hadn’t meant to, but his hips had bucked reflexively once the strain had been too great.

Inculta’s response had been grinding his thumb into his pectineus muscle, making him yelp in pain until the thumb of the other hand had found its way inside his mouth, pressing his tongue down to silence him.

 _“Least you want someone coming to check what’s happening, I would advise caution.”_ – he had admonished him, the hand on his lower anatomy cupping his testicles roughly as he had added menacingly – _“You wouldn’t want being discovered in such a compromising position inside your Commander’s tent, wouldn’t you?”_

Once again, meek as a lamb, he had shaken his head silently, eyes pleading for the man to keep on his… _punishment._

Inculta had kept two fingers inside his mouth that he had licked vehemently while he had shifted their positions with him kneeling on the rammed ground as he rested his pupil’s lower back, buttocks, and upper legs upon his quadriceps. Each leg at a side, calves and heels still dressed in military boots over his shoulders.

He had used the lubricated fingers later to open the crevasse of his ass until they had found his cavity.

The moment a finger had slide inside him, his entire body had arched on its own, unused but entirely pliable at the invasion. He had had to bite down his tongue to refrain from moaning when the second finger had been added and the pale man had started sliding them in and out of him.

This had been a pleasure he hadn’t been aware a man could experience despite the clumsy fumbling and heated kisses he had shared with other recruits in their communal tents, when darkness had dressed adolescent encounters in anonymity where there had been very little else than hand jobs and the occasional oral sex.

The first time a fellow recruit had taken him in his mouth had nearly made him get up from his sleeping bag and run out in a panic… but that had dwindled as soon as the tongue of the other boy had started working wonders until he had orgasmed so hard he had momentarily feared that the other could have choked with his cum since he had insisted on keeping at it despite him nudging the other several times that his release had been close.

Marius, had been his name. A young man that had been the polar opposite of Inculta’s ephebic grace: tall, dark, masculine to a fault, and built for war and love in his entirety.

He had been part of their first assigned _contubernium_. Same age, same instructor. A fellow recruit he hadn’t noticed earlier, taken as he had been with the distant Master Frumentarius, until the boy had followed him after all of them had taken their due morning ablutions at the river.

Marius had kissed him behind a tent where he had been changing into his uniform, hope shining in his bright green eyes, telling him in a whisper to meet at dusk.

Whereas exchanging some casual pleasure had been a common practice amongst certain _contubernia_ tents, maintaining a proper relationship had been something that had felt so alien that he hadn’t acknowledged it as such until it had been too late.

Marius had fallen in combat barely not three months after they had started to see their nightly encounters as something entirely exclusive between the two.

Marius had been well-aware of where his true interests had lain and hadn’t minded as long as his lips would be only his’ when the night came.

They had been too young and he had been too distracted dreaming of whitish curls, pale skin, and cerulean eyes to appreciate the enthusiasm and tenderness with what Marius had kissed him at night. He had only truly missed him once he had realized that the indifferent, greedy touches of other fellow recruits couldn’t compare with the dedication his late lover had shown him.

But then, although Inculta had shown him the same kind of dedication as he had prepared him, he hadn’t been soft or tender once he had deemed him ready and, after getting rid of his underwear, without taking the armor but simply lifting the _pteruges_ , he had entered him.

He hadn’t been violent, but he remembered hissing at the intrusion, trying to get away from the sudden fullness he hadn’t been prepared to experience, too much, too soon.

But the Master Frumentarius had limited to grab both his knees, resting the weight of his calves over his forearms as he had opened his legs, keeping him firmly in place.

His deft, almost dainty hands had caressed his inner thighs to soothe him, allowing him a brief period of time to adjust until he had started moving in and out.

Facing as they had been one another; he had suddenly recalled how many legionaries took slave women in the breeding tents, and his face had burned in shame in sudden realization whereas Inculta’s angelic features had distended in a knowing, condescending smile. Still sliding in and out of him, making his palpitating erection even harder although he had thought it impossible, his pace quickly increased in speed and force.

The sensation combined with the implied humiliation had twisted his psyche that night, giving in when Inculta had spilled himself inside of him, his hand taking his also orgasming manhood so it had stained neither him nor his uniform, leaving his impudent pupil soaked and dripping burning seed all over. The pleasure too great… the lesson too hard to forget.

 _“Now, clean yourself and go.”_ – the Master Frumentarius had told him in his soft, icier than a starless night intonation as he had given his back to the still dazed young man laying at his feet – _“May this serve you as a lesson of what shall you expect pursuing deviation in the company of wolves.”_

Nevertheless, his lesson - although sending a powerful message regarding the kind of treatment his Master would subject him to, never as a lover but a tool he could subjugate for his own pleasure – had only served to spur his desire to the point that, not twenty-four hours after the deed, still sore giving the first-time nature of the exchange, he had overstepped his boundaries yet again when Inculta had been teaching him how to crack a lock open, once again inside his tent.

 _“Impudent boy!”_ – he had exclaimed after delivering to him the hardest slap he had ever received, splitting a lip that had started bleeding almost immediately after – _“It seems that yesterday lesson wasn’t enough to dissuade you from pursuing your ill-conceived wantonness.”_ – grabbing him by the throat, he had kissed him roughly, suckling on the blood of his split lip, a thin trail of reddened saliva hanging between their moistened mouths afterward as he had hissed in an incensed, odiously sinful way – _“Shall I go, once again, through another lesson, hmmm?”_ – he had asked, grabbing his ass under the _pteruges_.

 _“Oh, yes, Master Inculta.”_ – he had purred back, his own voice slippery and suggestive indistinguishable from the sensual hiss of the other – _“Do teach me.”_

And then, looking in the eyes of his Commander, he had seen reflected the same cunning, the same deceptiveness… the same blue desire.

 _“Bend over that table.”_ – the man had ordered without further preamble.

He had taken him rougher than the previous time. And he had relished every second of it.

The same he had kept provoking the other man throughout the next seven years to obtain what little comfort he would offer, even though he would end covered in bites and bruises at the end of each encounter.

 _“You…”_ – Inculta had gasped on one occasion as he had been taking him against a wall, his wiry, pale forearm under his right leg, bending it upwards to aid in the penetration, forcing him to take his thrusts over the precarious equilibrium of one leg – _“… Are going… to get us… on a cross…”_ – sucking a bruise on his throat, he had added breathlessly – _“You sweet… sweet filthy cur…”_

Those rare displays of what he had grown to identify as “almost-affection”, even fleeting as they were, had been everything he had lived for. No matter how many times he had found dried semen between his thighs or remnants of blood when he took his morning ablutions at the river. The eyes of his comrades watching the constellation of cuts and bruises adding to his already scarred back.

But nothing had come out of their dangerous _liaison_ other than the silent, suspicious glances of his Frumentarii comrades, Vulpes Alerio’s eyes being the most disgusted and disapproving of all.

And then, Hoover Dam had happened, Boulder City but the logical outcome of the _Malpais’_ relentless, unrefined tactical choices.

And, speaking of tactical choices…

Not his first success, but the one that elicited more pride out of him: Nipton had been a carefully orchestrated masterpiece that surely would have made his old mentor smile, such was the stark beauty of the lessons taught here through fire and blood.

For dramatic atrocities were the field of any Frumentarius worth his salt… and he was now Caesar’s greatest Frumentarius.

He was now Vulpes Inculta. For _savage_ , indeed, was he.

If just…

“Commander!” – one of the men perched over the rooftop of the now ruined Nipton Town Hall exclaimed – “A lone traveler approaches the town!”

Smiling thinly, he released his grip on the shirt collar of the disgusting Powder Ganger of a winner that had resulted out of his lethal lottery.

“Go bid your salutations to the new arrival, Profligate.” – he said, kicking the human wreck far away from him – “You are free to leave.”

The man didn’t have to be told twice when he, firstly casting him a startled look as if fearing getting shot the moment he turned his back, threw his concerns to the winds once he got up and sprinted towards the town entrance, chanting madly about being a winner.

The lone drifter that arrived not five minutes later surprised him when the Powder Ganger had run to him - still chanting – to meet systematic, ruthless stabbing coming from the hand of the new arrival.

Once the Powder Ganger was no more and leaving the bloodied corpse as if it was nothing, the stranger – a man - walked his way towards the Town Hall, unafraid to meet him, his men and the trained mongrels that accompanied them congregated at the foot of the stairs.

However, the closer the stranger got, the more a familiar quality his features acquired: not very tall, not overly muscular, walking with a lithe grace that was slightly marred by a subtle limp, the silhouette coming into view rekindled something he had thought lost four years ago forever.

Whitish curls covering half his cranium since not only the left part had been recently shaved flush to the skin, but several old burn scars marred other than almost angelic pale features to the point the left eye presented a milky coating over what had once been cerulean eyes.

However, the scar that truly got his attention was a more recent one, over the ear, where two bullets had left their mark.

Once the man stopped before him, both admired the other in the short distance measured in mere steps that separated their personal stories, the years of absence, the dooming mark of shame translated into countless old burns and a limp.

Honorless and humiliated, his story as Vulpes Inculta had ended the very moment Graham had failed... to become the Burned Man.

Now, he was what he had been meant to be right from the start: a messenger, a man who had resurrected twice... to become the new Bearer of the First Flame.

Prometheus.

“Don’t worry, I won’t have you lashed to a cross like the rest of these Degenerates.” – was the salutation he received his old mentor with, a smile already forming over his thin, also pale lips – “It’s useful that you happened by.”

His smile was returned as if meeting his own reflection in a mirror.

An older, paler reflection of what should await any Fox. Such were the ways of the Legion.

Such had been the fate of a Master allowing his disciple to devour him and not the other way around until there had been nothing left but the same carbon copy of the mastermind behind the works of the Savage Fox, Vulpes Inculta of the Legion.

The name, the legend.

“Oh?” – Prometheus replied, voice smooth and slippery as Cazador honey – “Do go on. I’m listening.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I admit it, writing gay porn is not my thing at all, but I wanted a challenge, so...  
> Fair is fair: I started this ten days ago and I wasn't able to finish it until today, so here you go.  
> Also: not the other One-Shot in store. That one is proving to be... difficult to edit up to my satisfaction, so it will have to wait since the lovely Rikako asked me to develop another idea (｡◕‿◕｡) More stuff coming soon, guys.


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